


Joy Ride: rev the engine

by theAsh0



Series: Joyride [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers Family, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Shuri (Marvel), BAMF Tony Stark, Borderline Personality Disorder, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes is not ok, Bucky does everyone, Dark Comedy, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Healing, M/M, Multi, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovery, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Worldbuilding, no sex yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2020-07-19 20:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0
Summary: Hydra’s got it all wrong. He’s no weapon: he was their chariot of destruction. A tank or perhaps a guided missile. But now, this convertible is going for a spin.Rev that engine, scratch that paint-job, hit as many dumpsters as humanly possible. Drive up the wrong side of the lane and over all the orange cones; maybe enter a drag-race or two. Mess around in the backseat with the good guys and the bad girls both; scratch the names of his best in the hood. Just to tick Hydra off, when they see; when they’ve got him back.Because they will get him back. It’s as sure as the pendulum’s swing. Still, this swing he’s going to make last. Make memorable. This is going to be the one: the one above all.Joyride.Or: Post Civil war, Bucky saves Steve from political suicide, Tony from himself, and the Avengers from implosion. He fixes it all, except for himself.(Whoops. Fixed ch4 formatting)





	1. 1: practical execution

**Author's Note:**

> reworking this baby! yup. first chapter is mostly what it was last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, redo has started. hope you all don't mind! this should work better..

So, this is the role division: Steve DoesTheRightThing. And Bucky? Bucky deals with the fallout.

Back in the war, Bucky was the one that shot the rogues coming at Steve from behind. He was the one that kept the team together and out of direct fire. And, after a battle was done it was Bucky that made Steve visit a medic and have his wounds treated even when Steve would be adamantly and repeatedly telling everyone he was fine. 

It had always been the whole nine yards; before the Serum, Bucky made sure Steve got his medications, got fished out of the gutter and didn’t get murdered by a kitten. After, Bucky still made sure Steve ate his veggies. Kept his nose clean. And, most importantly, Bucky was the one that smoothed out the ruffled feathers and bleeding hearts. Because Steve may have always been an absolute ace at DoingTheRightThing, he was also an ace at being a self-righteous asshole.

It seemed only right that James Buchanan Barnes went straight back to that job after he’d been rescued (again) by said Steve, aka Captain America. Seventy years late, but hey who’s counting? And also, get over yourself James. Or Bucky. Or whoever. Be glad you got rescued. The guy had other things to do, okay? Can’t go around digging up all of Germany for a dumb-ass friend that fell off a train and was probably dead. Likely dead.. No definitive proof but hey Bucky didn’t have no Serum and with pre-Serum-Steve Bucky had spent enough nights coming to terms with Steve not lasting till morning.

Yeah; Bucky is totally over it. Anyway, he doesn't even remember it. Not really; not much. And, as said, Bucky is back to his old job. Which is, for all intents and purposes, saving Steve from himself. Because, seriously? Just after watching the guy for five minutes James/Bucky (he should just get used to Bucky- that’s the name for the job) is seriously impressed by the amount of righteousness right there. Captain America does not half-ass anything. He’s a take-no-prisoners kind of justice. And Bucky admires that kind of determination, that kind of single mindedness without even a thought for the consequences, painful and scary as they might be.

Yet it also appals him. Because, really? Captain America is a suicide waiting to happen. How had he even survived those seventy years without Bucky? Or, right; he _didn’t._ Jumped right into the arctic and had himself frozen. Which, also, _‘bad life choices, Steve!’_ James knows all about getting frozen and it’s a definite don’t-try-this-at-home. 

So, Bucky gets back with Steve (he didn't want this job but why fight the inevitable), and the next thing he knows Captain America and Tony Stark are duking it out. To the death, or near enough. Somehow Bucky is at the center of it; the cause even. Or, with Steve, perhaps it’s better said Bucky is the provocation. Again, at some point everyone wants to take a piece out of Captain America. He’s that bad. (or that good?) You don't need issues like your parents getting murdered, or dealing with shit like drinking and drugs and building guns as a coping mechanism to qualify for that. Not at all.

At any rate, Bucky’s not at his sharpest during the fight. Sure, reflexes are there, but as far as putting out fires; thinking about the bigger picture? Bucky is still in plant-vs-zombie mode. As in, he could be either: the plant or the zombie. Seriously, the only thing Bucky contributes during that fight is not drooling on anyone. And while that’s always a personal victory, especially when forced to watch videos that Definitively Do Not Cause any unwanted and debilitating memories to surface… yeah. It’s Tony’s parents murdered in that video, but it leaves Bucky so shell shocked he actually looks to Steve to be his guiding light while his higher functions check out. 

Lo and behold, Steve decides to add some gasoline on the fire.

As soon as they’re out of the fight, and back to breathing and thinking.. Bucky (Bucky?) doesn’t get much further than ‘ _oh shit.’_ Because talk about burning your bridges. Tony’s a big fish; pulls a lot of weight. And Steve was already up to his armpits in shit, setting governments against him with his blatant disregard for the akkords. Bucky knows they need Stark on their side to face whatever fallout’s heading their way from that. But worse, Tony is Steve’s friend and part of the team. No; Tony is the backbone of it. The provider of a home, the tech miracle worker. And likely (it’s Steve’s team) the only voice of reason on said team. 

Without Tony there are no Avengers. And Steve without a team? Or Steve missing a friend? Can you say moping abyss of depression? 

This little spat? It’s a fucking disaster. Another Steve commiting suicide plot. Basically, Steve losing a friend, or losing his title, would make Bucky’s main task -keeping Captain Dramaqueen alive- just that much harder:one the one side, it’s one less man on board the SS Keep Steve Breathing. On the other, like Steve needs any more help doubting himself? That’d just be another good reason for mr. Hero to jump or crash or blow himself up. Bucky’s good; but he’s not sure he can manage that much self hate into anything beyond more self destruction.

Consequence: there’s a sudden and urgent need for Bucky to go on a little side-mission. That side mission is dubbed ‘Save The Avengers’. And, at first glance, it sounds a bit of an overreach for Bucky to achieve.

And it would have been, had he just been good ol’ James Buchanan Barnes. But, he’s not; not really. He’s also the Winter Soldier and the Ghost and about a dozen other things; things that lied and manipulated so well he was never even discovered. There’d been a time that ‘the Ghost’ could end revolts with a few well-placed threats and not a drop of blood spilt. A time before, when they’d not even known to give him a name, and all he had to do was listen to the right politicians, add a comment here and there, and have a vote split the other way without anyone even aware they’d been manipulated.. Well, whatever. None of that is important now. What is important is that Bucky can fix the issue. But to do so he will need to talk directly to Stark. Without Steve.

Getting there was the easy part. The Ghost was a spy like no other. Back when metal detectors were not that common, and a good paint job hid the fact that his arm wasn’t normal at all, he travelled across Europe undetected all the time, even visited America several times. Sure, that all went to hell when he asked a few too many questions, and they started wiping him. But, now that he’s out for a while and his brain is past mashed potato mode, Bucky knows enough to do it again.

It is painfully easy to give Steve the slip. Not even T’Challa has transportation for the whole team of rescued/fugitive Avengers at the ready, so they end up boarding a private QuinJet from a nearby airport. They bypass security in ways that has Bucky wonder about how save these airport regulations are, and reach the plane’s dock without mishap.

All it takes is a little sleight of hand, a bathroom break and two cigarettes left close to a smoke detector. Five minutes later the whole C-gate is evacuating, and Captain America saves the day by almost single handedly getting everyone out of a burning airport. Bucky’s kind of sorry he misses it; he wonders if the other fugitive Avengers helped in cognito. He wonders if Steve tried to stay in cognito too, and failed.

Instead of finding out, Bucky sneaks out through the conveyor belt, manages to knock out the first worker he finds without lethal injury (so proud), and steals his id card and some overalls. With an acquired a smartphone he figures out what hospital Stark was taken, hitches a ride in the plane’s baggage storage and steals a car to this luxury Polish resort hospital.

Interesting point of note, Bucky’s arm is still pretty much ruined at this point. All that’s left is the shoulder joint and the main vibranium fixture for his upper arm; a hand’s length of pole of the most solid material known to man. The handicap doesn't slow him down, and he shows up at the hospital with it wrapped in clean linen bandages. Decked out in a middle-grade suit pilfered for the occasion he walks in with a smile and his one arm overladen with biggest gift basket he could find.

The lack of security measures are insulting at first. Bucky charms the nurse at the reception with a smirk and a few well-placed compliments. She laughs at his ‘armless jokes and nearly falls over herself to help him figure out the right room number when he alludes to the fact that his memory might be slightly damaged. Bucky is sent up in the elevator towards room 1304 with only a minute’s delay,

It’s too easy, Bucky decides on his way up. Some instinct is set off as he listens to the ambiance music on the elevator. Yet he squashes the instinct and tells himself he really should just worry about Stark’s lack of self-preservation. Seriously, this kind of trust in the good of mankind seems more Steve’s style. Is stupidity a prerequisite for joining the Avengers? The dissociation hits for real when Bucky walks down the hall towards the room and has to accept that the security battalion sent up to detain him.. simply isn’t coming.

Of course, Stark sets any worries of the man being another incompetent dreamer straight up to the moment Bucky sets one foot into that hospital room. 

Bucky stepped into a silent hospital room, his right arm hugging that encumbering large get-well basket against his chest. He was not surprised to have an energy glove aimed at him by the bed’s occupant. He was, however, very surprised when after closing the door with his hip, he found a third person in the room with them. 

Tony Stark had not been alone; behind that door a striking lady stood waiting, and Bucky really should have been able to hear her. Actually, perhaps he had heard her, but had opted not to dwell on it. It would not have mattered; Bucky would have happily walked into that room even if he’d heard an entire SWAT team breathing behind this door.

The thing that did give Bucky pause was that the lady cupped an open flame in her outstretched hands. She wasn’t tall, not even on her ridiculously high heels, but she had a commanding presence, and a ridiculous amount of naked rage shining in her eyes. Bucky, recognising the primary source of danger, threw the woman his most charming smile, waved his metal, bandage-wrapped stump in what he hoped was a comical gesture. “Don’t worry, I’m unarmed.”

She did not smile in return, though she did bare teeth at him. “Tony just got out of three hours of surgery thanks to you. You think that I’m going to fall for the old ‘armless act?”

“Easy, Pepper.” Stark called, erasing any doubts Bucky might have had over her identity. Then, Tony demanded any and all attention on himself, simply by reffing the engine in his single energy glove, tone calm but calculating. “What do you want, Winter Soldier? ”

A quick stock of Stark’s current health made one remember not all Avengers were super soldiers; a dark stain had spread from above the man’s eye, puffing up his left cheek. Bucky assumed it was blood from a cut above his eye, that had leaked down the inside of his skin; the paint-like darkening drooped down to his collarbone. Stark’s chest was bandaged in so much white linen Bucky couldn’t even guess what was wrong down there. His left leg, similarly wrapped in a cast hung from a pulley block up on the sealing. The left arm, closest to Bucky, was fixed against his chest with more bandages. And finally a right arm, free and bare, and shaking with the effort to keep that glove aimed at the perceived threat. 

“Bought you a get-well gift basket?” Bucky’s supposedly disarming smile had the opposite effect; the energy-glove burst a short wave, narrowly missing his face in favour of the extended plastic-wrapped basket. It was swiped from his hand and splattering against the door behind him in a squash a shattering of the door’s glass window. 

With a mental step back, James regarded the ruined flowers and leaking fruit. The wicker decorative basket hit the floor, followed by a thump- then another thump. An apple, then a mango, finally getting unstuck from cracked glass. Tony had unscrupulously murdered the hell out of that gift basket, but was apparently far from done: “Fuck your gift basket, Hydra dog! What the hell do you want?”

Bucky sucked in a slow breath, back in the forefront, but calm again. Perhaps good manners were dead. That didn't change the objective. Also, him and Stark had so much in common already : a dislike of Hydra, a disposition towards shooting things... They were practically destined to be friends. Also, not trusting the Winter Soldier just made him smart. There was no reason to take offence. 

“I came to apologise.” Bucky offered; hazarded. Not because of Stark’s rage, but because Tony Stark thrived on doing the unexpected. He was erratic that way. Not unsteerable... but to get Tony to do what was right, he needed to have that take people by surprise. Tony only hit curveballs, it seemed. Or; perhaps a bounced ball would do the trick. Bucky turned to Pepper Potts. “I think he’s upset.”

The lady, did not disappoint. “Fuck you, you nearly killed Tony. Give me one good reason not to burn that grin off your face.” 

“ Fuck trying to kill me.” Stark couldn’t leave a comment like that. Wouldn’t. “I’m Tony fucking Stark. Everyone tries to kill me; and it was mostly Steve besides. I can totally respect someone trying to kill me. It’s a decent ambition. You!” spittle dripped as the bed-ridden man stabbed his glowing hand Bucky’s direction. “You killed my mother!”

“Hmmm.” Bucky took one step closer to the bed, raised his single hand in surrender. “Well, not my best work. I’ll give you that.”

“You fucking strangled her.” 

Ah. So this is the part where James had to pay . Pay Stark, pay miss Potts and by extension pay the same price to Sam in the retelling now. It’s a small thing, really. Not a memory from down below; not one out of the original Bucky, so looking at it should not cause any catastrophic breaks. He can get at it easily. Hell, he’s already been made to relive it before, when that recording played for him, Tony and Steve. “And what would you have expected me to do differently, exactly?”

Stark wavered only slightly in that self-righteous fury, sputters only a moment. But it’s there; James sees it, catalogues it. Stark may be a rich pampered son of a bitch, but he’s smart, and jaded enough to know this world. Still: “You should have told them to stuff it. ”

Explaining gets at the worst pain James knows his past selves have experienced; a betrayal of a magnitude he can only truly appreciate now that he’s removed from the people who lived it. Now that he can see all the memories and put them together. How in half a century he had gone from someone willingly helping a government that he owed and loved, to a mindless puppet that had no choice at all. 

Because the Soviets had saved James. From Hydra. THey had rescued him from a lab; the only survivor despite two bullets to the brain. A broken thing with a rotting arm and no memories, and they’d nursed him back to health, made him whole, and given him a purpose. That nameless American POW would have done anything for the USSR. He had done everything for them. Even when he’d seen the poison spread, the corruption. Watched a Party that was supposed to herald a new age of communism and equality tear in on itself. Watched mother Russia sink down in hate, fear and despair. And then, one day, he woke up to find himself, still in the same hands, with the same people, but very much an Agent of Hydra . 

“That’s the thing about Hydra, isn’t it?” Bucky was but a paper-thin layer, peeling easily. Exposing this still-open wound. “They tell you to do something and you do.. Or, you tell them to stuff it, and then; after..” James nearly breaks for it. “You do it anyway. Only badly ...

“I think, if you look at that video,” James tried to meet Stark’s eyes. Tony’s. Tried to see if he was connecting. Or if he was spilling his guts to the floor for no reason. He could not. It was like his gaze had turned to lead, weighted down to the floor. “Look at what a botched job I did, and you can see. I did tell them to stuff it?” 

“Is that..?” Stark faltered, then hardened again, overriding Pepper’s ‘Tony’ hard. ”you think I care for an apology?” 

It’s interesting, James thinks, that his first instincts can be right, but that he’ll fall for false assumptions all the same. First, Tony is more alike to him then he’d first realised. Second, Pepper Potts really is the true threat here. Not because she’s the one that will kill him; gods no. she is indeed to voice of reason and calm in this room. But, because her opinion is the one that matters .

“Whether you care or not,..”James had already known that Antony Stark didn’t consider himself a very good person. He’s not even above doing the wrong thing, just to make an impression. But not here; not with Pepper watching. Because to her; he does want to be good. Do good. All Bucky needs to do is win her over. And he’s pretty sure his little sob story already got here there half-way. He can hear it in her breath, uneven, like she’s trying to object; trying to think of what to say, though she’s not convinced of what she wants to say. She’ll need a little push yet. Bucky has just the thing. 

Once upon a time, there was a Ghost that could infiltrate every government, every military facility in the world, even with a metal arm only hidden with a thin layer of paint. He’d done it without acrobatics, few words, and the greatest weapon in his arsenal: a smile. 

To James that Ghost had been the top; the pinnacle of his abilities. He had had many different smiles for different situations. For different audiences and purposes. First, the one that must have carried from before, the one he recognised now, looking at war-time footage from the old Buckyy: a tough-guy, rough-guy hard-around-the-edges, slightly self-deprecating uneven grin. 

Second, a more sultry one full of naked admiration that always troked those bloated egos. Next there's the slower, softer I-went-through-bad shit hesitant one, that begged with his eyes: ‘won't you rescue me?’ 

And many more, like the Cheshire, zipper ripping open in the dark. All sharp knives for teeth. Promising pain, death, oblivion and despair. The one he’d lost last, and at least scared even Hydra bad enough to cover up, behind a mask so at least they wouldn’t have to see.

James got them all back now though, and Bucky’s face successfully morphs the first three and turns it on his new ally: Pepper; Stark’s conscience, and his true reason for trying better. Does she even know? Alike indeed; Pepper is to Tony what Steve is to James. A guiding light, when the difference between right and wrong become muddled. A moral compass for the one he lacks. Stark might not be above murder, but Tony would not make her watch . 

“I am going to beg for forgiveness anyway .” James didn’t check her reaction. Didn’t make sure he had her sympathy. If she wasn’t the type to rescue the basket cases, she wouldn’t be here with Tony-I-literally-didn’t-have-a-heart-Stark now. And Bucky really did make a good charity case. The best lies are truth, after all. Beyond that, it didn’t even matter what she thought now. She wavered; Stark saw. At this point her presence was enough to seal the deal. No need for any more emotional confessions, and Bucky could skip the very dangerous offer of a free-bee hit for Stark. (Because he’s not sure Tony would be above ordering a hit on Steven Rogers himself, and that would be defeating the whole purpose.) .

Attention back on Stark, it’s all James that took that final step and slid down, pushing folded legs under the bed’s down-turned railing so far they locked. “I can do them really good. Beg on my knees and cry .” the soft humming of the power glove became loud as he moved within inches from it. Ignoring such dangers was easy. Still, reflexes can be strong, so James shoved his one hand behind him, wedged it under the belt of his pants.

He knew Pepper saw it, from her intake of breath. Knew Tony realized too; and he nearly smiled from the betrayed look the man gave him. Like Stark had somehow expected better from the man that murdered his parents. But then that iron-gloved hand drew back all the way, and threw forward. The world exploded.

He’d expected it; counted on it. Still, even without the full suit’s power behind it, even with Tony wounded, a metal first to the face was a metal fist to the face. Bucky reeled back, staring up at the ceiling, stuck somewhere between the bed-railing on his legs and his abdominal muscles drawing him taut, hovering over the floor. Wet heat was streaming down his cheeks and pooling around his eyes. His nose broken; a good, clean break he reckoned. James closed his eyes and pulled himself back into a kneeling position.

After a beat too long, Bucky opened his eyes to see Tony Stark’s exasperated expression. He was done, James realised. For all his bluster and posturing, Ironman does not strike those that will not defend themselves. Not with this audience watching. That one hand dropped, and a glove turned into a bracelet. “I want to take you apart, you know.” Tony sounds wary, exhausted. James secretly thought it was an act. “But right now I haven't got the energy.”

“Aaah.” his voice sounded wrong and nasally, so Bucky wormed his hand free, checked the time, and deftly set the bone cartilage of his nose back straight. “Well, how about a rain-check.”


	2. the falcon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky meets up with the new team in Wakanda. mostly, Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (small tweak where timeline of this chapter is days, not weeks so that Black Panther film fits after)

So that was the story of how James Buchanan Barnes saves the friendship between Tony and Steve, the Avengers as a whole and quite like the entire world. Bucky makes it up to the Wakanda borders without detection or casualties (win). Once across the border he lets a patrol detain him; another win-win all around, because he doesn’t snap and kill anyone and is soon reunited with Steve and the other Avengers. 

The obvious conclusion to come to is that Bucky is back, and as good as ever. Better than before, even. That Bucky knows exactly who he is and where his loyalties lie. That he knows Steve—Steve from before and Steve as Captain America—and that he is his friend. His best friend; his childhood friend, bound to him by a whole lifetime of memories of the good and the bad.

The truth is that that James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t remember shit.

Okay, so that is a lie. There are layers and layers of knowledge and skills and persona; the people he was before, drowned and erased to pave the way for his next iteration. The Asset over the Winter Soldier, over the Ghost, over Yasha, over the American… people that may have been buried for a while, but were never truly lost. Different stages of a life; a long life, parts often missing some vital information that had defined another, but... But looking at the whole from above it now, as the sum-of-all-parts, an easily identifiable and whole person, just with different live experiences.

But now, beneath all that, there is more. A core of jumbled up mess of info. A whole mix of sounds and tremors and smells, dredging up nasty knots of anger and fear and feelings. That is what Steve set off, that day on the Potomac. 

It scares the fuck out of him.

So he —whatever he is now; a sum of all those parts— leaves it be. Doesn’t touch that cesspool of memories, that dirty roiling mess. Does not think if it; does not focus on any or it. Quiets his mind until it is like a lake without even a ripple on the surface. He doesn’t need those memories anyway; not even to play Bucky. The Asset got by with Swiss cheese for brains and functioned just fine. Did his job, finished his mission. And this mission is simpler than most. It’s all a question of collecting info, reading people, and extrapolating the rest. Pick up on those little cues of what those around him expect, and act accordingly. 

The-sum-of-all-parts is aware that this crafted image of the man he was nearly a century ago is only cardboard thick, that it will dissolve if anyone looks too closely. But, who would want to? 

Steve sure doesn’t; he has his Bucky back. Looking too deeply at why-who-how would only hurt do damage, and Steve seems to instinctively know that much. For once, choosing a path less self-destructive: When one of T’Challa’s guards drops Bucky at the rooms the Avengers are staying, Steve simply sprints in and envelops Bucky in his arms. Hugs Bucky hard, driving him back over the threshold with his mass. 

The rest of the team knows better to poke as well; they are happy to have Bucky there. The Black Widow and the Archer do ask questions, but they are professional enough to leave him his secrets. Trusting, for now, that he knows what he’s doing. The Witch isn’t quite so trusting, but Bucky privately returns that sentiment. If she didn’t have such scary powers he’d rather be rid of her, but with what she is.. well, better to keep your enemies close and all that.

The Falcon however, isn’t so smart. He stares at Bucky from the get go. A guarded expression as he frowns like a dark, brooding version of his name-sake. Trying to dissect Bucky with his eyes. the-sum-of-all-parts does not appreciate this. Bucky, cardboard though he might be, hates it.

“What happened?” Steve, still with an arm around him, protectively. A hand falls on the tapered off bandages covering what is left of Bucky’s arm as he guides him into a communal kitchen. Captain America in sweatpants and a T-shirt, fresh from a shower; a strangely domestic sight. But all is not well: evidence from their fight with Stark is long gone, but there are bags under Steve’s eyes, and his pallor is off. Little lines around his eyes crinkle with a relieved smile, tension bleeding away from Steve to show exhaustion underneath. Likely Steve has not had an hours sleep since Bucky went missing.

And Bucky frowns back at Sam-the-Falcon over that. Because had the man not been Bucky’s replacement, for four years now? Yet all he does is hover there, looking at Bucky like he’s the problem here. Bucky is not. Yes, this mission; the one to deal with Steve’s shit was pretty much forced on him. But that’s never stopped him before, and he (Bucky?) always executes his missions to perfection. 

Right now, that perfection is falling short. Bucky knows Steve needs constant monitoring, because he’s just too fucking stupid to keep himself healty. And even beyond that, help usually needs to be forced down his throat. Bucky had assumed Sam would know this. And that the Falcon would, at least while Bucky was gone to take care of urgent matters, step up to the challenge of being America's most suicidal hero’s sidekick and fucking mother. Apparently, Bucky has overestimated the Falcon’s willingness to fill those shoes. 

The-sum-of-all-parts breathes deeply, smiles his most sheepish smile and lets it go. Bucky is here now; he will take care of it. He haltingly tells a tale that’s a little funny and a little sad: he suggests that the fire alarm at the airport spooked him without openly lying. He gives an edited retelling of his track here, though he leaves out his detour to Stark in favor of making up some good anecdotes. And finally finishes with a voice thick from embarrassment. “I’m so sorry I missed the plane.”

“It’s fine! I’m just glad you’re okay.” Steve voices it, but the two other assassins nod; not so much as believing but accepting. Steve being Steve, acute worries elevated, goes right back into narcissistic guilt mode: “I looked for you, we delayed the plane as long as we could, but..”

The widow blows out a breath, but holds her piece. The archer —Clint? Is already distracted with getting everyone a celebratory drink. Wanda, the witch, takes this as her cue to retired to her room. Sam has not moved from his perch, bare arms crossed as he finally addresses Bucky for the first time: “are you alright?”

Bucky does not say he’d be a lot better if Sam would do his fucking job. Seriously, does he need to coach the whole team in Steve-basics? They’ve known him for like four years by now, but still they need Bucky, who’s working on hearsay and historical textbooks here, to get the guy to sleep. Well, fine. Bucky supposes Bucky is simply Steve’s one true guardian angel, no wings needed—so suck it Falcon! Watch how it’s done: Bucky tries for half a smile and fails. Explains the ruins of his arm keep popping out cracks of electricity out of nowhere. Explains he’s hardly slept and it’s hard and scary to be out there with only one arm. “I guess a nap would do me a whole lot of good right now.”

Steve looks crestfallen, guilt-tripping it up. But that’s his basic setting, and Bucky needed to get the idea of sleep into the man’s head. It works: Bucky gets a room, and Steve tells him to “go get some rest,” before thankfully retreating to a room of his own. Which means: Steve’s about to take his own advice. How is that for growth?

The next few days play out better than expected. All missions come with their perks, but this one more than any other. Wakanda is a beautiful country, and staying in the castle is complete opulence. After fixing a plastic bag over the open circuitry of his arm, he enjoys a good, luxurious shower. He enjoys sleeping in a clean beds and wearing clean, comfortable clothes. He rests and basks in the relative safety; experiences the joys of a mission of not-killing and a place not-Hydra. Yet even the best of missions have their downsides.

Bucky doesn't show it, but he hates the doctors prodding him and technicians researching the ruins of his shoulder. Not to mention the accusing questions when they find the shoulder socket is built up entirely of vibranium. Thankfully, his deflections on account of bust memory are accepted, and Stark also comes around fast enough, seeking contact with Wakanda to offer both the ruins if Bucky’s old arm and his help to build something better. Wakanda also gifts the aid of their genius princes, Shuri, who makes the entire process endurable and fast. They have all the measurements and data they need, and assure him he’ll only need to return for the fitting.

What he hates even more is the work on his brain. The talking, the discussions, the constant need for his approval and opinion. All the fucking scans and tests and benchmarking. But worse of all, the four-way free-for-all conference calls with him in the middle: Steve standing against Stark once again, in a dispute over what he is and was and what needs to be done. Wanda the witch, perfectly willing to fry anything Hydra from his mind completely, against Shuri who’s happy little diagrams appear to suggest there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him.

But most of all Bucky hates-hates the Falcon. Sam does not participate in these terrible meetings, but everytime Bucky leaves he is there watching, judging, dissecting, waiting for him to slip up. Does the Falcon think him a double spy? That thought rakes Bucky badly. Because even if he worked for Hydra for half a century, the first thoughts that ever came back to him, in any iteration, after every wipe, was that Hydra deserved to die.

It all comes to a head after another teleconference between what is dubbed the brain-team and Stark—who still hates his guts, bless his newly instated heart. His supposed brain-team of three alone has already argued for days, Bucky stuck somewhere in the middle like a blind arbitrary, nearly half the words used by them complete gibberish to him. And today, they add Tony Stark to the mix. The idea was to share knowledge and come to a mutual point. But Tony’s brand of mediation is randomly insulting everyone, and Steve and Stark still need to fucking kiss and make up; it’s a terrible idea. Bucky knew it was a terrible idea. And the cacophony of arguing, screaming, supposedly brilliant people pushes Bucky over his boiling point. 

He calmly gets to his feet and tells them: “I don’t give a fuck what you decide, but I’d prefer to be fucking frozen again for this arguement. Less of a headache.”

Bucky is halfway down the hall before he realises he means it. He’s hurting, frayed, and about half a step of breaking character and murdering the first person that speaks to him. Besides, all this free time only plays into his creeping paranoia. The sick thing buried, that suggest he cannot trust any of them, that they are just using this as an opportunity to get him back; control him. Take him back to Hydra.

Then he enters the communal kitchen, and gets the scare of his life: right there, at the kitchen table, sits Sam, completely still as he nurses a coffee. 

Bucky’s reflexes must be bust, or Sam has the instincts of an assasin; either way, Bucky has his single arm up in defence or offence— and yes he and could kill the guy before Sam can even move but that’s _ hardly the fucking point. _

Sam completely ignores Bucky’s wounded pride, and the near-death experience that ex-airforce should have at least noted, to take a slow sip from his mug. It’s in this moment that Bucky realises that the Falcon is not a dumb as he had allowed himself to believe.

Bucky hates him for it. “The fuck are you doing here sitting in the dark?” He accuses; it’s not that dark—nearly mid-day. But the shades are drawn against the hard sun and none of the lights were on. Mostly it’s the violation: he is the fucking sniper between them. If anyone’s going to sit still in shaded rooms to ambush someone it should be  _ Bucky. _

“Sorry,” the Falcon shrugs. “I must have dozed off.”

Which, okay. He supposes that can happen. But, Bucky doesn't have to like it, and the-sum-of-all-parts, the nameless entity that hangs over all is wary; waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Sam proves him right: “I was waiting for you, though.” A sigh, dark eyes hidden behind shadows and lashes. Glaring somewhere in the vicinity of that mug of coffee, expression unreadable and evasive. It’s odd; this guy used to help veterans, is by all accounts a stand-up and and nice guy, but Bucky can't trust him; can’t like him. 

Sam takes another long drink from his mug, then queries: “It’s just been driving me mad. How did you do it?”

Bucky doesn’t get what the man’s play is. What Sam wants, what Sam means. Bucky only knows that they have a mutual dislike of the other. Some deep, inbred need to compete. It confuses him. The-sum-of-all-things knows Sam is not Hydra. He can’t be: he’s  _ black _ , and he is not completely insane... Sam should be trustworthy; he _ is _ trustworthy. Sam is, by all accounts, a very nice guy. And Bucky? Bucky was literally made to get along with everyone. Why don’t they? 

“Tony Stark; just last week, he wanted to kill both you and Steve. Now he’s looking into getting us a pardon? What did you do?”

_ I’m sorry, Bucky can’t come to the phone right now _ , his brain supplies helpfully. But _ if you leave a message after the beep, he’ll get back to you. _ Like an empty shell, he stares. The-sum-of-all-things had it  _ wrong _ .

Sam trusts Bucky fine. He wouldn’t flat out come and ask if he didn’t. Hell, he’s obviously impressed with Bucky. Looking at it from here, somehow different, he sees it: offered support, not stalking. Worried glances, not distrust. Attempts at communication, not an interrogation.

That begs the question, how a thing like him could misread someone as open and honest as Sam? The answer is simple: Bucky. Not the card-board one on top, but the thing at the bottom of the lake. Sam has been Captain America’s unofficial side-kick for years now. The-sum-of-all tilts his head and considers. It appears the  _ old  _ Bucky is _ jealous _ .

Sam gives him a hopeful smile. “Come on, I promise not to tell? Bucky?”

It’s an invitation, a promise, the extension of the olive branch and such a chance. But Bucky can not be the one to exploit it. There is just too much resentment, too much anger; the pollution from below threatening to bubble up once again. But that’s fine; it would be a relief; not to have to keep up this act constantly. To be allowed to be more. The-sum-of-all-things comes to a decision. “Call me James.”

The reward in return is Sam’s wide grin, sharp eyes finally softening. “Great. James it is.”

James, the-sum-of-all-parts thinks he might love Sam, just a little bit.

  
  



	3. 3: downtime

James smiles when he’s done; smiles up into the jungle sun with his eyes closed, single hand on the cool balcony balustrade that marks the end of the walk that accompanied relaying his encounter with Stark to Sam. James has retaken all his incarnation’s smiles: Bucky’s wry challenge and the American’s soft one over bedroom-eyes. The Ghost’s unabated admiration that could set off even the most jade politician into boasting away state secrets, as well as the Winter Soldier’s Cheshire grin; a zipper of pointy teeth opening: the last thing the most deserving of targets would see.

But this one is new and all his. Something proud and enduring, showing off a strong jaw-line and profile. Something that needs the sun there for him to pull off. Basking in the light; associated with light and gold. It’s his, right? ...but he might have seen it somewhere before. Regardless, James knows he told the story well. It was a good story; he’d hardly needed to improvise at all. And from his periphery, he can tell Sam has hung on his every word. 

“But?” Sam lets it hang, like there’s some big, monumental hang-up problem with Bucky’s work here. “But, letting him break your face like that, man? Not healthy ok? I’m not sure if this is a super-soldier thing or just a nineteen-forties thing, but can you not in the future?”

Bucky grimaces at the sky. A beautiful, blue sky; from this grand balcony at the Wakanda Palace. Looking out on the side of the city, into dense forest. Sam only has eyes for him; an angry, dark-eyed frown. Like he’s somehow disappointed. Worried? James thinks that’s unfair. The Falcon hasn’t struck him as someone with much in the way of self-preservation instincts, and he’s all un-improved flesh-and-blood.

“It was healed and well within two hours. Hardly an issue.” James finally offers, because perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps Sam really has no idea. He is pretty sure Natashia has already procured all files on the Winter Soldier, and all his stress-tests graphs are in there. So the information is available. But perhaps she hasn’t felt the need to share yet.

Sam turns to him, forces eye contact, one bare elbow on the gray marble balustrade. “That’s cute. Very 'Terminator'. And what if he’d done more? What if he’d blasted your head off with those precursors?”

Then Bucky would have been the Headless Soldier. Fitting enough; perhaps even a logical step after the Asset. And IronMan would have gotten some Kudos points with the general public? And Steve would have gone on some righteous crusade into the depths of despair... Bucky winces. “He wouldn’t have. Pepper Potts was standing practically behind me.”

“The one that turns into a human inferno when upset? You’re right! You were perfectly safe.” Sam seems to like sarcasm. Bucky throws him a half-raised eyebrow. It was hardly a bad gamble. As far as James remembers, it’s one of his safer ones. Still, if Sam for some reason feels obliged to worry about James’s safety, that is only to his advantage. So instead of just answering James sighs, turns around to rest his back against the ballisade, single elbow on marble, and looks around.

Wakanda’s capital is beautiful. Birnin Zana. A city sheltered from the elements by forest and hills, technologically advanced yet free of the usual blanket of smoke and dirt. A marvel to behold. Skyscrapers stand abreast one-story mud-packed housings, and yet even from up here, in the relative shelter of the royal castle, birds are chirping and the sounds of children playing reach up. Two ships approach and drop out of stealth, fly over head and touch down on the palace’s landing pads. A silo housing two quinjets and at least a military grade helicopter. Another landing area behind the.. and that’s where James grimaces and turns away. Puts his single forearm flush against the tinten marble and stares down at it. 

Such a beautiful country, and its people kind and trusting. So much technology. Such riches. James has to wonder how long that will last. Personally, he agrees with the previous king, T’Chaka, hiding it all away. But T’Challa is already showing he will not be the kind that hides away in the shadows while others suffer. Wakanda will make her debut at some point in the future. Like some chaste maiden turned eighteen; hidden away for most of her life, out in the wild, whole wide world for the first time. Beautiful, trusting; innocent. Wholly unprepared. Someone is going to take advantage of that, James is sure. 

“Bucky?” It’s Steve, looking like he should knock. It strikes James as odd; it’s a public balcony, and the pair of them are hardly hiding. Besides, it’s Steve: James had heard him coming, even if he hadn’t deigned to notice. He throws the man his patented Bucky-grin, and it seems to help somewhat; as far as he pushes, with a quick eye towards Sam. “Can we talk for a moment?”

And that; that right there is magic in the working. Because Sam easily excuses himself and Bucky has taken soul possession of Steve’s time. Again; which does have James suppress a rather smug grin. Steve might have gotten distracted by Stark a little bit today, but at least he still comes running to his side. It’s a pleasant thought. So is Steve’s worried, deep-boring eyes. The nervousness of his breath as he practically fidgets in place. “Tell me you were joking back there, Buck.”

James blinks twice before hazarding, slowly: “Joking about what?”

“You wouldn’t actually want to be frozen, would you..?” Steve looks worried. Scared even; which is funny. James didn’t mean it that much. It was just something to say. Something like ‘why don’t go on and shoot me while you’re at it?”, or “do we have to do the monologue before you put me out of my misery?” Because all this talk is a hassle; James understands the need to remove his trigger words. With them in his head, he would be little help to his Captain in the field. He’d be a damn liability, in need of hiding. And while James is good at hiding, Steve is not a fan.

Fact is, while James is glad for it, the Steve/Stark bonding ritual is taking up a lot of valuable time. He didn’t mind at first; understood the need. But now they are just stretching it. James wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t for the fact that his presence is required. James would be fine with just going where pointed. Just following Steve. If he’d at least get to have some fun during. Whether it’s bashing heads or chasing skirts would be all the same. Stuck talking about his damned brain day in and out while he doesn’t even understand half of the jargon used.. Well, it’s got James near thankful most of the scientists that ever worked on him never bothered before.

So while James doesn’t mind following Steve, it only seems fair to try and push the situation. And if Bucky in cryo is something Steve is against, it provides a fine piece of leverage. James supposes it makes sense: cryo to Steve must be something Hydra came up with, and if it is Hydra than of course it’s cruel and evil. Steve would probably be a lot more okay with it if he knew it was actually a Russian procedure, and it only got popular because of the frigging cold winters in Siberia, and the Winter’s Soldier’s dietary needs being greater than that of three active men put together. And of course, the food shortages. There had literally been a point where him taking a stroll out and only coming back in spring saved several children’s lives. James could easily explain to Steve that getting frozen had always seemed like the right thing to do, even after he’d reached the point where he was not sure at all he was assassinating the right people.

Instead, James sighs slowly. “I’m just so tired Stevie. Tired of being useless. Tired of people talking over my head..”

Rogers falters, a moment’s hesitation as he puffs up for argument, but deflates just as fast. A big hand comes up to clasp his shoulder, accompanied by Steve’s least sincere, most painful smile. “Okay Buck. Okay. I understand.”

The touches and the hesitance are reserved for Bucky, of course. It’s not something James has failed to notice. It’s a testament of his singular standing, and in that he is both proud and pleased for it. Less pleasant, however, is the realisation Steve is likely walking on eggshells because he fears for Bucky’s addled mental health. Steve has been both shielding Bucky from criticism and dancing around the mere suggestion that Bucky might need protection. Steve is a terrible dancer.

James doesn't mind at all if people perceive Bucky weak. But he doesn’t mind Steve’s dancing either. He figures it’s a good sign. What does annoy him is this new, _ reasonable _ Steve. It’s just annoying, really. And, worse, unexpected. Unpredictable. The Steve Bucky should know is all bravadoes and fast decisions. All flare and temper. So, James decides to push, try and get that temper up.

“Look Steve, all this nerdy mumbo-jumbo is just making my head hurt.” Which was all truth, honestly. Did they really believe James would distill some sort of wisdom from three psychotic experts with a net IQ of over 700 arguing at him? Bucky had never been a big decision maker; and James certainly never needed to. Execution, yes; in the broadest sense. Decision making? No; that had always been above his pay grade. Besides. “And they’re more you crowd than mine, really.”

What was the point of all of this, if Steve would not choose for him? “How about you do the boring strategy meetings, and I..” casting around Bucky noticed a Dora standing beyond the grand balcony door back inside. The threw her an overemphasised wink. “..while I  _ play the scene. _ ”

James considered it rather brilliant: both suggesting Steve was boring, and his friends not Bucky’s friends. While simultaneously chasing skirts. What could be more Bucky than that? He’d also like to know Steve’s stance on that. Unfortunately, the Dora’s confused frown before she turned away was more than he got from Steve, who was apparently blind to the whole exchange, profile turned up towards the sun with his eyes closed. No smile; just a long-suffering expression and a jumping muscle in his jaw. “I don’t know Buck. I- it’s a new world. The rules are different now. I’m not sure I can make the right decisions.”

James snorts at that. Unbelieving. Uncaring, perhaps even. “Just make sure you’re killing Hydra and you’re good.”

“That sounds nice but.. I can’t even tell who’s what anymore..” after a long sigh Steve does turn, and something warm enters his expression. “Just, one last time okay? Tomorrow, I think we will figure it out.” 

When Steve puts it like that, it’s real hard to deny him. Even for James. Besides, he can do one last time. After that, James demands he gets to enjoy himself. Wakanda is a beautiful country; peaceful, if perhaps a little boring. But he can have his down-time fun here, and as soon as he’s all fixed up, he’s sure Steve will find something fun to fight. And he’ll be right behind the guy, right behind the shield and doing what he’s best at. It will be perfect.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to fabyenn for beta-ing and telling me to post at that one moment when I was down in the dregs and hate everything I wrote and about to just.. stop ;)


	4. 4: strategy meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again special thanks to fabyenn for beta work.
> 
> oi, can you feel the tension?

Bucky just stares; mouth slack. Only barely keeping his jaw from dropping open to a gaping wide, complete vacant.. well,  _ mind-wiped _ look. Body frozen in some perverted juxtaposition of horror and confused curiosity ,as he watches the quarrel between Steve and Stark’s image-on-a-screen. The big meeting room feels empty, even with Shuri and Wanda in their respective chairs opposite of Bucky. On his left, Steve is now standing, arguing his position, while getting constantly interrupted by onscreen Stark; a hologram hovering over a chair to his right. A ping pong game of words thrown to and fro, that has his eyes snapping left-right-left and back behind the curtain of Bucky’s too-long hair. From Steve’s strong gestures and broad swipes to Stark’s animated image moving up and down the screen while fluttering his arms like an ADHD robin.

What they are saying is all but lost on James now, because he’s too busy replaying the events leading up to this disaster; figuring out how he let this happen, and how he was supposed to stop this now.

He doesn't have time for this shit. Sam’s on James’s team now, that’s a big win. But there’s still so much to do. The Accords. Hydra. Some guy with a broken back somewhere. Not to mention all the angry politicians... And Steve; surely, Steve will go stir-crazy soon enough. Go in all gung-ho and try to disarm a nuclear warhead with the power of love and hugs, or whatever he calls those suicidal tendencies now.

While Steve was so against Bucky going into cryo yesterday,  _ right this moment _ he is advocating that this should be totally and entirely Bucky’s choice. And if getting frozen was what Bucky wanted, then that should be an option on the table now. An opinion only born, James is sure, because  _ Stark  _ called the idea ludicrous and cruel. Next the exchange between the two had set off Shuri’s funny bone, and Wanda’s panic button and now everyone was screaming at each other. 

Well; that wasn’t really fair. Wanda had only stood up to yell “that’s how they get into your head, they get into your head!” somewhere in the thick of ‘ _ what is Hydra practice anyway? _ ’, and then Shuri had managed to grab her by the elbow and had whispered something in her ear. Now the pair of women sits happily on their side of the table sipping tea, while Shuri contributes mediating questions such as: “Are you going to let him talk to you like that, Captain?” and “I think he just insulted you, Tony.” 

In response the two men are now happily cutting into each other with renewed effort, discussing their respective historical track records, and whatever lack of morality or misguided virtue that might indicate. It’s a dick-measuring contest; two peacocks vying for the attention of a girl that is only mildly amused ...while said princess could have defused the situation with a single sharp remark. Shuri really  _ is _ that good, and James would like nothing better than for Shuri to bat for his team. But she’s sharp and mean and the kind of rogue agent that cuts at everyone’s back; or at least all the men’s. 

So, no help from the Princess is forthcoming. And between Wanda Maximov’s obvious distrust of him, and Stark and Steve again at odds, chances of anything good —or at least an end to his suffering— are slim.

It is at this moment, as James sits there running through his every—and admittedly few— life choices, that the doors slam open, thankfully behind the pair of women. Because with all the raised voices James isn’t sure he could stop Bucky from swinging at loud sudden noises within arms length. Which is of course why one of James’s more prominent life choices is _ don’t sit with your back to the fucking door _ . 

At any rate it’s a damned good thing he’s too far to take a swing, and only half gets to his feet when soon-to-be-king T’Challa himself strides in; a blue swirl in his regal dress suit, flanked by the orange of two of his Dora. James recognizes the one on the left as Okoye herself, but decides the right one can hardly be anyone of particular note. 

With a slight grimace James drops back in his seat, although all his instincts are screaming for him to get to his feet and stand to attention. Because, noo; that is not how the Avengers interact with the damn crown-prince. Insead, the whole team of Western interlopers has taken an air of too much familiarity. Which, really, is just shooting yourself in the foot according to James. Yes, the guy  _ says _ he doesn’t stand on formalities, but that’s no reason to take his word for it! This guy’s word is law here. If any of them outlived their welcome now… well, there were very few places left to run to. And, James cannot help but think this kind of behavior is exactly why that is.

Princess Shuri; his  _ sister _ , might again be encouraging the lack in decorum. When T’Challa approaches the table, she turns her revolving chair, and happily proclaims: “all hail, my brother has arrived. Please, perhaps our future king can get these poor white Barbarians off each other’s throats.” 

A quirk of her lips and a wink her brother’s way tells James that that was another one of those Wakanda in-crowd jokes. But, Stark, from his screen above the empty chair reserved for him, seemed to catch on. “Oh! Oh!” The man’s red-suited figure stands one hand raised like a child in class, head cut off from the nose up by the screen’s borders as he jumps up and down excitedly. “Professor T’Challa, Steve called me a callous asshole.”

“I did  _ not! _ ” Bucky could nearly see that skinny little kid in place of Captain America, voice all hurt innocence. “I only said you should stop trying to reason everything out when there’s obviously feelings involved.”

Tony pointed, dropped back into his chair after a beat, and breathed: “see?”

“Wow, Captain America was right. You really are an asshole.” it’s Wanda’s first contribution after her flip, and Shuri gives her a high-five, singing “ _ burn _ ”. Which James feels is undeserved recognition. Also, Steve has a right to sputter; he didn’t actually flat out say Stark was an asshole. He just insinuated it with his tone.

Tony Stark’s offence is like a farcical play. “See? See what I’m up against? I try to do the right thing, for once in my life, and…”

“First time huh?” Shuri. “ _ Poor baby _ . For what it’s worth, there’s nothing wrong with your logic, Stark. But you know Stevie does all this thinking with his heart, because it has more brain cells than the grey matter up there..” her elegant hand raises, gesturing vaguely at her head with a flutter of her eyelashes.

T’Challa turns. “Sister, please, easy on the borrowed national treasure. You called me to mediate, so let me do that at least.” his frown is quickly ruined by the note of pleading in his voice, and his admittedly imposing figure is likely only another bullseye for Shuri’s relentless put-downs. But the princess purses her lips, side eyes both Wanda and the two Dora standing by the king, and relents with a larger-than-life eye-roll.

The nameless Dora suppresses a snicker, and James would bring up his hand to rub at his eyes, but he’s afraid if he lets go off the table now, he might just end up facepalming Bucky into it. Hard. Or maybe grab Steve by his obnoxiously blond hair and bang his skull against the table repeatedly. It would be typical for James to find refuge from Hydra behind the combined might of Captain Amerika, Wakanda and Stark industries, only to have them conspire to torture him to death with  _ boredom _ .

T’Challa smiles. “Well, I have pulled some research and have great news. Sister, can you recap on what the main problem is with the work on Mr. Barnes’s brain?”

“Sure brother dear. I’ll even dumb it down for assorted company.” she grins too big and wags her delicate eyebrows, yet refuses anyone to retaliate simply by continuing too soon. “Basically, Barnes’s brain both repairs damage at an unprecedented rate, and stores information doubles at several places. I’ve found simple memories mapped in four areas. The trigger words look to have been stored double as much. The problem is, I can only burn out one precise point at a time, and by the time I’d have done all the back-ups, Barnes will probably have repaired and replaced the first few spots.”

Shuri inclines her head slightly, to her brother, who happily takes over, addressing James directly. “And that’s where this old research comes in. We have at some point in the past experimented with our own cryogenesis for the sick. In cryostasis, all bodily functions are slowed to a near stol. It should be theoretically possible to burn out all the backups of a trigger word, before your brain has a chance to copy them.”

Again the doors open, more softly this time. And a Clerk steps through with a stack of papers. T’Challa smiles, trying not to notice when Steve’s phone buzzes. “Well, I have pulled some research and have great news. Not only would putting sir Barnes in cryo sleep be reasonably safe, we can do the work on his mind while he sleeps. It would serve as a good alternative to narcosis, if nothing else. Might even be more feasible, as your system, Sergeant Barnes, does tend to deal with drugs erratically. And all the scheduled procedures together would take weeks, so in the conventional manner we would be talking multiple surgeries.. Still, we should discuss...”

While Steve tries to look at his screen discretely under the table, the Clerk makes his way around the table, handing out papers. Something prickles down James’s skin; some  _ wrongness _ that runs down his spine like a warning. Danger! He’s up and moving before it has even registered; takes two great leaps and grabs Steve’s chair in a fluid motion. Drops Steve from it, hoping to tip the Captain down under the table. But Steve is already on his feet, shouldering past him and in front.

Steve and the clerk stare at each other for a moment, before the dark, unobtrusive stranger licks at his lips and makes eye contact with James for a calculating second. It registers; James does not know him. But he knows him; or of him at least. An instant later, the man turns, runs and jumps from the open vestibule window. The Dora general at the crown-prince’s side is screaming into her Kimono beads, while the second Dora follows towards the balcony, but stops, pauses to communicate. T’Challa himself takes a deep breath, before proclaiming. “Alright. Everyone please remain calm..”

Steve does  _ not _ remain calm. Steve is already running, after the guy; the second Dora is in his way, lifting up a warding hand. It does no good. Steve has already sidestepped; is already on the window sill before he jumps down out of sight. T’Challa’s voice jumps an octave. “My people are handling the…”

_ And, _ James thinks bleakly,  _ there goes our safe haven. _ Still, if Steve’s running into danger, Bucky should be right there covering his six, right? Steve needs him there. So, he stops listening and ‘borrows’ the side-stepped Dora’s spear while he steps around her as well. Two steps and he’s out into the open air too. A drop at least a story down, towards a sloping tower roof. Bucky doesn’t pause before clearing the railing. Behind him, he hears T’Challa scream. “..situation is contained, Bast’s bọọlụ!”

  
  



	5. 5 pursuit

Steve has always been an idiot. Bucky knows that down to his bones; James hadn’t even needed to read between the lines at the Smithsonian exhibit to learn that. Stevie just never _ thinks.  _ Never thinks it through. He is definitely not thinking as he’s sliding down another slanted roof-top, opening to a clear drop down at least fifty feet down. James scampers a level above him, doing a little better on the edge of the dome of a tower twenty feet removed. Mostly thanks to the spear he’s jammed between the black shimmering tiles. 

How the pair got to the far roof is a mystery. Steve might have jumped; the clerk either had something to aide the jump, or Steve must have broken some form of bridge in crossing over. The distance itself is not a problem: James is a sniper first. He  _ likes _ to keep his distance. But. 

It’s frustrating; watching as Steve slowly closes on the clerk, who is probably not a real clerk because he’s doing reasonably well navigating the slippery roof while backing up. When he reaches a corner, the man turns easily, his body becoming progressively obscured from James’s position. Still the distance is  _ manageable _ . An easy shot; a possible knife-throw. James has no guns and only the one knife on him, but he’s confident he can make the throw. Choose to kill or disable with a hip-shot. He  _ could  _ do it. If he had a  _ hand to spare _ .

Instead, he’s scraping boots over the edge for purchase, trying to place his body behind the upraised spear dug between tiles. Yet every time he thinks he’s got his shoulder or hip leveraged right, the spear shifts a little, the shaft losing a few degrees from it’s perfect vertical, and he  _ slips _ .

“Mister Barnes.” a slightly cold voice rings out from above the balcony he came from. The vestibule of the high tower he came from, a decent jump away and at least ten feet above. It’s the General, Okoye, one hand pressed firmly on the railing, spear stuck out to him from the other. “Please climb back up to us. You are in no state for acrobatics.”

“ _ I’m _ in no state? What about Rogers?”

She grins at him, all teeth and no amusement whatsoever. ”How about you come back in; that way I can deal with  _ Mister America _ next.”

James takes one look at the two figures facing off. He has no worries Steve would lose. He just worries, because Steve is a  _ dumb fuck _ , and if this clerk is the kind of person James thinks it is, he’ll be happy to take them  _ both _ down. “Can’t.”

Then, James curses: only half the clerk’s dark head is still visible, Steve’s hands warding and thrust forward as his lips move. The large blond has his gaze locked with the clerk, but the dark man steps back and is now completely out of sight.

“James, look at me. Please trust my people to take care of this and climb back up here.” 

James  _ does _ trust the Dora to do their job. He does. But this is Steve being an idiot, and James cannot take a risk on them stopping  _ Steve _ . So instead James looks towards the tower’s side. He’d have to either climb over the dome or shimmy around to the other side, but he’s reasonable sure he’ll be able to get eyes on the clerk from there. Maybe he’ll have better purchase there, and he’ll be able to take the shot.

While Okoye starts to rant about the useless stupidity of men in general, and White men in particular, James tries the shimmy tactic. It sounded nice in theory, but he’s already leaning against the roof, one boot planted firmly behind the spear to keep purchase. As much as he tries to find purchase with the other foot so he can move the spear, he finds none. Not even kicking in produces more of a foothold: a tile drops, a second one right after. But the mortar and stone beneath them is little better than the smooth cover stone. Before James quite understand what is happening, another stone drops, right next to his spear that suddenly feels dangerously loose. 

So…. it’s the other option. With a hard heave, James pulls himself up and runs-pushes off, pulling the spear after him with a smooth turn. His purchase gives, at the last moment, just as a black figure lands next to him and grabs for his shoulder. 

The shape only registers as the Black Panther after James has sidestepped and twisted, and he has little time to do anything with this information but file it away and register that he’s not going to make it up the dome. His trajectory is off, and while T’Challa’s soft paw-like boots seem to stick to the roof naturally as he follows after Bucky, James is left scampering awkwardly in his combat boots, like a dog on ice for the first time. Halfway up the slope he starts to slip down again, so he adjusts for it, running down sideways to at least cover some distance if he cannot fight gravity with this little friction. 

What he sees on his way down is exactly the amount of stupid he expected: Steve, lower body still obscured, crouched low, one arm still out as he speaks, the other oddly clutched close. The clerk is still backing up, but now is brandishing a knife, wicked edge gleaming in the sun as he waves it from side to side. 

James still has his own knife, tucked behind him. However, with a single hand still holding his spear, he might as well have left it under his pillow this morning, for all the good it will do him. By the time he drops the spear and pulls the knife from his back, his window of opportunity will be gone.

The Winter Soldier has never thrown a spear before in his entire life.

It’s a strange thing, to find such a fault in his training. He’d been trained to  _ throw a fucking frisbee _ at some point. But spears? Apparently too archaic. It doesn’t matter; it’s in the air before the thought is fully formed. Which, James hopes, together with how he’s running on a slanted rope, is why it goes wide. The spear misses the clerk’s neck, but at least it nicks his shoulder; the knife dropping from a suddenly boneless hand. The clerk is forced to the side by the blow, balancing precariously on the edge of the roof for a moment.

Steve moves forward. 

And, right then, James no longer  _ has the luxury to look _ . James has reached the edge of his own roof, so he unsheathes the knife from his back and drops himself down on it squarely, blade forced down hard by his considerable weight to cut between tiles and catch deep. It digs in a seam, screeches. 

And the blade breaks clean off.

Which... _ what the fuck did those Wakandans use for roof tiles? _ And, for that part, what the fuck was that  _ spear _ made of that it had no problem cutting in while his high-grade keflar blade just snaps like a twig? Caught completely by surprise, Bucky flings out legs and one arm wide like he’s making snow angels in hopes of catching some friction. The edge of the roof catches momentarily on his elbow, then over the back of his ear, before he goes over the edge.

A claw catches at the back of his t-shirt, bunching the material up into his single armpit. reflexively James claws his one right hand into the material on his left side, where it already slides over the stump of his left arm, tearing into the sharp edges of what is left of it. James dangles, hanging like a kitten from its back scruff; T’Challa swearing vehemently. As he dangles, James realises: Bucky is really, really high up. 

“I have you, Sargeant.” T’Challa groans, a second claw groping for purchase: his left hand, joining the right that’s already deep in his shirt. James doubts that very much. Bucky’s  _ stupid _ hair is in the way, and T’Challa obviously cannot reach his right armpit, nor the hand attached to it, now occupied with not letting the short-sleeved shirt coming off altogether.

There are no towers or palace roofs below them. No adjacent skyscrapers or even four-story buildings. It’s a clean fall all the way to the street below. He’s swaying dangerously as the fabric rips, the Black Panther fingering at the wires and metal of his left shoulder. 

“Don’t.” It’s all James gets out in time; all he has time for, before a current surprises the would-be king, fumbling his hold. A fraction later, Bucky’s in a freefall down. Wind blaring in his ears and the feeling sickening familiar. The spin has him going down face-first, thankfully alone on his way down; T’Challa is not going down with him. But  _ alone _ and  _ falling _ and Bucky’s only  _ got the one arm _ . Only got the one arm left and he doesn’t want to lose it. Doesn’t even want to try and save himself with it. And yet, he cannot help bring it forward, warding.

Arms wrap around him from behind, interlocking around his chest as a body from behind pushes hard, changing his direction as the ground falls away and is replaced by sky. From behind, close to his ear, Sam’s voice yells over the wind. “What are you, suicidal?!”

Sam. he must have gotten his wingpack out at the first sign of trouble. Still, hadn’t the Asset destroyed that? No matter; Sam must have gotten a replacement from somewhere and James is not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Imminent near-death or worse averted, Bucky laughs. “It’s not me! It’s  _ Steve! _ ”

“ _ Both _ of you! I’m thinking all you men from the forties are actually secretly  _ lemmings! _ ” Over his shoulder, James can just make out Sam’s face. His eyes obscured by thick aviation goggles, but there’s an obvious wide-toothed smile on his face as he cranes his neck. “I think I can put you down over there.”

And that’s where it stops being  _ fun _ , and starts being  _ a problem. _ They are going the wrong way, but even looking back at where James had last seen  _ him, _ there’s  _ no one there. _

“Steve!” Stevie must have gone over the edge. What is Sam even  _ doing _ here, talking? The roof from before is empty. Fucking  _ empty _ . Yet Sam’s calming voice in his ear quell the sharpest panic. “He’s hanging, man. Come on, I’ll get him next.”

Craning back around the other way as they wind through a curve, Sam is proven right: Steve is literally hanging: half-way down but still at least forty feet up from the next awning below. Fingers like hooks digging into a shallow purchase of a window sill. Steve is trying to pull himself up, trying for a better handhold. But below him, scratching at his boot, is the panicking clerk. The clerk is pulling Stevie down.

But it shouldn’t be a problem. Steve is strong enough to kick him off. One good kick should be enough.

Steve is obviously  _ not _ trying to kick the man off.

“Take me there.”

“Absolutely not. I’m-”

Steve is at their right side, now. Bucky has a right arm. With a twist of and a reach, he can grab Sam’s right wing behind them. With a sharp tug at the flap, he sends them down into a spin.

“Son of a-” is all that Sam manages as they veer off, losing altitude fast. 

Gauging the distance, Bucky releases the flap and pulls hard at Sam’s thumb, dropping from his arms with considerable speed. The plan, of course, was to hit the clerk in the small of his back with both legs outstretched. Sam is not onboard for the plan however, and drops him with a slight sideways spin and not enough swing to bring his feet fully forward. Instead, Bucky hits the wall full-body at least five feet to the right of the clerk. His breath leaves him hard, with what might be a soft ‘ouch’, and he sticks against the wall a moment from impact alone. There might be a few dents in the hard black stone. A moment later, Bucky is sliding sideways and down bonelessly.

At the last moment, when he’s already loose and sideways, he reaches out and  _ grabs _ . It’s blind luck that Bucky at least fell towards the clerk. Blind luck that he can reach at all, with one single arm. But he grabs the man’s pants, and the man can no longer hold on. James nearly laughs in victory, before he sees Steve’s back closing down at him; Steve too has lost his purchase, and they are all going down. 

Bucky hits the groaning fabric of the awning jousting against the clerk. A fraction later Steve’s bulk slams down on them both, and the fabric tears completely. They drop down further, hitting crates and creaking wood. Crates that slants sideways, topple, and again they are falling. Covered in fabric and bodies, James is lost several moments, hit in the back in the side and over his arm-protecting his head before they all come to a painful stop.

Breathing too fast Bucky tears, fights and rips right through fabric, wood and clinking of metal parts to pull himself free. He breaks the surface of the mess, a soft cloud of dust swirling in what must have been a temporary storage pavilion. Wooden crates are upended and broken. A body in front of him is covered by a tarp, and Bucky grabs it, pulling at it. He already knows, half-way that it’s the  _ wrong one _ . Too small, too slight. Not enough muscle.

The dazed dark face of the clerk comes up, short dark hair shining with that slick thickness of blood. They stare into each other’s eyes a fraction of a second before James recoils as if burned, the cals to arms around him falling away. Because of the thing he can see within those eyes. He can see.. something wrong. Something  _ familiar _ .

And then the clerk opens his mouth, dry lips and voice cracking. “Желание.”

It’s a useless thought as his body freezes, one arm coming up to shield an ear. Uselessly, pointlessly. Like he could ever keep those words from coming in. “ржавый,” the man continues, obviously finding strength in James’s reaction because that’s not a clerk; that’s a canvas wearing someone else's face. A nothing. A no-one. And he’s fucking  _ right in front of you _ .  _ What are you doing you fuck? Reach out and snap his neck. _

But it’s no use. His single hand feels weak; shadows and light dance around him, fingers shaking. He knows, objectively, that he can reach out and crush the man’s throat and silence him. That he can kick out and crush the man-thing’s head effortlessly. Yet all he feels is the insurmountable desire to shrink in on himself and roll himself up into the shell of a fetus. And he cannot even find the strength to _ move and do that. _ He’s frozen.

“Семнадцать.” 

_ Stevie? Where’s Stevie? _ Steve would stop him. Would make this end. That’s why James needed him, wasn’t it? That’s why James came with Steve in the first place. What point is all that strength, if when it comes down to it...but James already  _ knows _ where Steve is. Right beneath him. He can feel the shift under him. Beneath more wood and canvas and god knows what else, as the ground rolls and there’s thunder in his ears. If Bucky could just move his fucking ass, Steve could come up... make this stop. But he’s fucking sitting on the supersoldier and he can’t even twitch.

“Рассвет.” 

Wood groans, strong and proud. A snap, behind him; a whoosh of air past Bucky’s bleeding ear. Plastered hair ruffling after it. The not-clerk sighs, sagging backward a moment as a long shaft quivers, from his eye. Something wet hits Bucky’s face. Goo splattering in his unblinking eyes, over his mouth and nose. The man’s head slowly tilts back, the shaft of the arrow impossibly long sticking up straight a moment before he falls backward, dead.

It’s quiet. Eerily quiet, before someone laughs, loudly. “Whoo. Don’t thank me, miss! But a kiss would be..” the voice breaks off, smothered by several muffled impacts and at least two woman cursing under their breath. -”ouch.”

James knows that voice. It’s Hawkeye. But, his vision is still stuck on the empty place where the not-clerk, not-man had been sitting a moment before. All he can see is the fletched end of the arrow and a canvas awning. All this he sees with one unblinking right eye. The left one is dripping goo and leaking tears in sad abuse. _ I should blink. I can blink. _

A moment later, Bucky is rolled to the side, spitting and wiping grey matter and  _ eye _ and whatever else from his face. He nearly hits a guard in the knee when he straightens. It’s only now that he notices he’s surrounded by Dora and guards. The ground next to him groans, then pushes upward before opening up like a mole’s heap, Steve’s arm pushing out, followed by a disheveled and bleeding face.

“No wait, I can explain!” Off behind the semicircle of Dora, two guards are in the process of cuffing a resisting Hawkeye, still on the floor under the weight of several Dora. “I’m innocent. —Yow, hey! Don’t put your foot there!”

“It’s not what it looks like!” Clint Barton reiterates with a little too much drama, then with a quick glance at one of the Dora: “Oh, actually, was that  _ your _ foot? You can put that foot there anytime you want; you’re cute!”

“Bucky? Clint?” Steve asks, confused. He isn’t the only one. Bucky is overwhelmed by the urge to throw up. James fights it back down, but it’s a near thing. A moment later, the Black Panther has made his way down as well, and he comes to inspect the clerk’s body. His face is hidden under his mask, but James can tell in one glance, the prince is not amused.  _ This is so bad. _

  
  
  



	6. 6: retreat

Back when James had emerged from the Potomac, alone and free to piece himself back together— to make something from the waterfall of memories that sought to drown him; make something of the lives and feelings and dozens of identities— he had realized pretty early on that he had always been little more than a pendulum swinging. To and fro, as his shell was cast from one side to the other. A body forever stuck on the same tracks, going to and fro from one terminal and back. 

A ride only ever meant to be done once; and yet  _ he _ could never get off. Not even when his spirit broke and some new incarnation of him'd had to take the wheel, like a shift change for the train’s operator. None of James’s incarnations had a constitution for a very long shelf-life, unwilling to do the same round trip more than once. Because whichever way the train went - to his Captain or to mother Russia or anywhere else - the terminal, the end of the line James’s ride returned to without fail was always the same: Hydra.

The original Bucky runs out of will; out of steam, after only two swings of the pendulum. Two roundtrips; two drops; twice returned under Hydra, adding up to a measly total time of  _ less than a year _ spent resisting them. Later incarnations don’t even last that long. 

“Let me just get this clear.” T’Challa, his Black Panther suit once again hidden away, paces from one side of the meeting table to the other, running a tired hand over his face before visibly restraining himself in place. “My clerk for over fifteen years has been replaced by a _ Hydra _ agent  _ three days ago? _ ”

Hydra; the one and only constant in his life; the inevitable monster in whose orbit he is forever stuck, only finding solace in temporary freedom. A breath of freedom, before he inadvertently is pushed back under, by a fist in his hair or a claw dragging him down by the ankles. The first time, Zola took him from Steve. The second time, a battalion of Nazi soldiers found him after his fall from that train. Apparently by now, all he’s warranted is a nameless death-commando recruited somewhere from the depths of Africa; his face surgically altered to resemble a dead Wakandan clerk. 

Natasha provides a visual of the actual clerk, found dead fifty miles from the border. What alerted Natasha and Clint about the guy remains a mystery, but James supposes there’s a lot going on that he is missing, cooped up doing test meetings. Meetings they’ve apparently had to return to with due haste, after a little basic first aid and a lot of Wakandan cussing.

The alert Natasha sent Steve only reached them in the nick of time. Whether the Hydra agent impersonating the clerk meant to whisper the trigger words in James’ ear or just provide them on paper, either would have worked, and James is grateful for Clint shooting the man. 

Sadly for Hawkeye, it appears James is the only one. Although Stark still seems to enjoy the show; the multi millionaire scientist is the only one in a good mood. T’Challa is glowering, Okoye and her Dora Milaje are posturing and Steve is pouting, eyes slightly off. Bucky suspects a slight concussion, with the scrape over his forehead and all.

Shuri has even broken her usual blasé front: “We  _ needed _ to know how Hydra got that man here so fast. We  _ needed _ to know if he’s come alone, where he came from. How he knew about all of you… now, we have  _ nothing! _ ” 

Steve moves forward, slanting in his chair next to James as he tries to take the weight off his left side. Apparently Bucky’s weight cracked several of Steve’s ribs. James refuses to feel sorry, even when it obviously takes Steve an effort to raise his voice. “He was using the words. It was an emergency.”

“An emergency that would not have happened if the pair of you had not followed the man.” There is steel in T’Challa’s tone; discipline barely holding a flaring temper. The future king is a man prone to outbursts, but this lack of trust obviously tries his patience. “The man would never even have gotten close if this information had been relayed to us or even to my security first…”

From the corner of his eye, James can see Steve frown, the crust from the scrape on his forehead deforming; Bucky can hear his counter argument in his head already: Steve could not take that risk. Not with Bucky. But Steve swallows the argument, looking to the side with a defeated: “I  _ tried  _ that..”

Natasha, now on her own hovering holographic screen, huffs. “I formally request your and your general’s kimoyo beads' access numbers, Your Eminence. And I do apologise. But at least there were no further casualties. I will dig around on this end. I do share your frustration; we have no leads and no idea what or who else might be coming.”

Stark cackles madly. “What was that Rogers? Stevie phone home?”

At which point, of course, James is completely and totally lost. Which happens _ a lot _ with Stark’s mad adlib events; his references to pop-culture or whatever. Yet, even without knowing what that even means, James can feel the atmosphere in the room changing; a mutual consensus is being reached, and it’s completely over his head.

T’Challa pushes himself up where he’d leaned against his chair. “From my end, yes; I would appreciate it if you move your plans along, Captain. With the crowning ceremony coming up, I’m hardly in a position to mount a good investigation right now. Unless there are any objections to my previously suggestions, we should all get back to work.”

With that, he leaves, entourage of Doras trailing behind him. The one whose spear he stole gives James a quick scowl before she turns to Clint Barton, pointing two fingers from her eyes to his face. Clint just clutches at his heart, pretending to have been mortally wounded.

On James’s side, Steve sighs deeply. Perhaps Barton’s antics are a diversionary tactic, perhaps he really is immune to subtext. But, obviously, everyone else is in a sudden hurry to leave: Shuri and Wanda get up together, just as Nat’s image flickers off with an “I’ll keep in touch.” 

Even Stark, with zero effort: “Oh, look. I left the stove on and my mom’s calling me— from beyond the grave, whatever.” He disappears in a hurry.

Sick dread fills James’s stomach as Steve sets his jaw in that bad-news manner that’s so recognisable.

“I think she likes me.” Barton. Not that James has energy to deal with him right now. 

Like..

Steve nods to himself, sighs and stands slowly, hands bracing on the table as he straightens his spine. There’s a look of determination coming over him, as he breathes his Captain America persona. It’s nothing good; nothing good for James.

“You think I got a chance with her?” Barton, still harking James, over his shoulder. “She was a looker. She likes me, right?”

“Clint,” Stevie sounds so tired, and it’s not good. “Can you give us a moment?”

“Aah,” Hawkeye laughs too loudly, slapping him on his empty shoulder, “you two need to have a little discussion, right? I can read the room. I know when I’m not wanted, right? Sure, sure.”

Thankfully, Barton leaves. Closes the door behind him softly, but the uncomfortable silence stays. And the creeping cold settles into James like an old friend coming to call. Birnin Zana is a warm city, and temperature control in the palace is perfect, yet his gut is freezing. 

“You okay, Bucky?” With difficulty, James pulls his eyes from the door to where Steve is staring down at him with a worried frown. Arms crossed over what must be aching ribs. It takes a moment for the question to register, for the reason for it to click. When it does, he puts on Bucky’s lopsided smirk and lists in his chair, throwing a single arm over the back of it. “‘Course I am,” Bucky crosses his legs for good measure, trying to get the stiffness, the ice that had frozen him in place to thaw. “What up, punk?”

The ice comes back with a vengeance: Captain America’s posture becomes evasive, eyes dodging away; he’s actually fidgeting from one leg to the other. Steve seems to remember himself, straightening with a square of the shoulders. Grabs his chair and turns it to face James; sits down hard and raises his chin. “Me and Tony. We’ve been talking. I mean, outside of the meetings.” 

And that’s  _ great _ .  _ Should _ have been great; except that James didn’t know. Wasn’t told. And he is getting a really, really bad feeling here. “And..?”

“And, well. He’s still pretty upset. Pretty mad. At me; not at  _ you _ apparently, Buck. Apparently, hitting you in the face got most of that out of his system. Apparently, he feels that I still owe him a punch to the face.”

Clarity finally hits. “Stark wants you to come back to his tower, doesn’t he?”

Steve nods, happily. “The whole warrant for our arrest is still a problem, but we’re working on that. Working on the Accords too. It’s all thanks to you, Buck. I really can’t thank you enough. But, anyway, the plan is, me and the team will go and get some public support for our cause; visit some countries left out of the Accords and do some good work there. Meanwhile, Tony and his lawyers will work on the Accords from the inside and see if they can get us all pardoned.” 

James swallows. He already knew, didn’t he? Apparently, Wakanda is a terminal too. The end of this pendulum’s swing. He’s already heading back, to the place where he doesn’t want to go. “There is a but coming, isn’t there?”

Steve puts his elbows on his knees and looks away, eyes shaded. Then, a moment later, he crosses his arms and forces eye contact anyway, hard and desperate. James isn’t sure he can meet that stare, not for much longer. Steve’s voice is a plea: “It shouldn’t be too hard. The charges against us are dodgy at best. We’ll get public opinion back on our side and there’ll be an outcry to drop charges to moment they need us.”

“But I’m different.” Something burns behind Bucky’s eyes, because he can see it now. In the way Steve sits back, lengthens the distance between them. That bridge that he’s built; Steve’s tearing it down. He’s getting ready to leave Bucky. Leave him behind. Again; and there’s only one place to go once he’s alone. 

“You’ll be safe here.” Steve gestures with one hand. “And the attack shows we cannot just let Hydra be. But T’Challa will keep you safe. I will keep you safe.”

James focuses on Steve’s chin; just to not have to look into those big blue, earnest eyes. Big, honest and  _ lying _ . “You’re leaving me?” 

It’s literally all he can get past his lips. The stunned understanding leaves him blank, the arm he’s hooked behind him falls back in position and his legs uncross to straighten out. Because all of Bucky is checking out; hiding away. And without Bucky, James is but an empty sheet of paper right now; or perhaps a failed sketch, discarded.

“I.. don’t want to.” Captain America tells him. All regal and patriotic as fuck. The lying, fucking, bastard... “And it’ll only be for a little while.” (lying) 

“It’s for the best.”(lying) 

“I wanted to stay with you longer,”(lying) 

“But well, with this Hydra attack... But we will keep you safe. We can keep you safer this way. Me and the team, we’ll set up a false trail. Hit some enemy bases. Keep them too busy to get to you..”

James is calm now. Too calm perhaps. He can just make out Bucky, from the depths, screaming:  _ End of the line; til the end of the line? _

Lying, lying, LYING! Like going after Zola? Like falling off a fucking train? Like seventy fucking years of….til the end of the line, you fuck? Steve’s getting the hell off this ride, because he’s got a better, brighter cause. And what does Bucky have? What does James have left? He’ll be stuck on this nightmarish ride till the end of time.

“The treatment is going to take time.” James can hardly hear Steve’s voice anymore. Not over Bucky’s ranting rage. And James tries to focus; focus on Steve, because Bucky is not one to listen to. Never one James should listen to; but mostly, not right now. “But you’ll be safely hidden here. Once you’re better I’d be honored to have you at my back.”

Keep Bucky Safe? With Steve gone, James will be alone again… He’d even take what little he’s made friends with, with the other Avengers. James  _ needs _ Steve; needs friends. He might have been okay before, when he could sink into anonymity. But James had given that up, now. He’ll be easy pickings. Hell, if Hydra already knows where he is now, what would be the point of leaving him? Except for Steve to save his own skin. Get out and leave him with his new friends.

James has been an idiot. A fool to count on a past friendship to bind them together, to keep him safe. Keep James safe. Because James may _ tell _ himself Steve needs him; might even  _ believe _ him at times. But James needs Steve a whole lot more.

But Steve is not gone yet. Steve is still here. And Steve may be widening the gap between them, burning that bridge, but Steve hasn’t  _ dropped _ him yet. Bucky can still jump across; show Steve how much he needs him; how much he  _ cares _ . Take a leap of faith; Change Steve’s mind. It would take something monumental; because Steve never changes his mind, once he’s made it up. 

With one fist, James grabs at the back of that annoyingly blond crop of hair, and closes his eyes as he thrusts himself forward. Doesn’t stop; Doesn’t slow. Vene, vidi vici and all that. In for a penny, in for a pound. Pushes past that still-thin beard that Steve is growing and meshes their lips together roughly and sharp, until he’s tearing with teeth like some hungry animal. And he prays to God and Jesus above, don’t drop me  _ Steve _ . 

Don’t drop me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to fabyenn 4 betawork.  
> and ho, man can you Feel that fic going down? seriously starting to diverge from canon.  
> it's going to be SO great. I hope you enjoyed. do say hi if you did.


	7. route

Steve drops him. Like a sack of hot potatoes. Which, honestly isn’t anything new, is it? Something James should have expected. He’d already used his one get-out-of-jail free card sometime back in the nineteen-forties. That’s likely why Steve had dropped him the first time: off a train and into a frozen lake. 

The sensation of falling hasn’t stopped; wind is still whistling by his ears, still cutting cold in his face, sucking hard at his eyes. James stands around waiting for that sudden stop, hitting hard ice followed by cold splashing water. Yet he’s inside a warm room with windows :quiet and still. 

Will he even notice when he hits rock bottom? Had Bucky had reacted the same, after falling off that railroad bridge? Did he lay around stunned, still tumbling in his mind? Begging for someone to pick him up, snatch him up like a bauble that caught their eye... An abandoned toy, ready for his next life. Unresisting even when it turned out to be the ones that’d found him had been, again,  _ Hydra _ .

It would be like Bucky. Because Bucky is a fucking  _ idiot _ . He’d probably just lain around like some damsel in distress, waiting for rescue. James bets Bucky died from sheer  _ drama _ , but the body didn’t get the memo, and that’s why James had to be created. Created to house the shell that spent a month or three at the mercy of Zemo’s abandoned underlings. A procession of faceless doctors and scientists that James only remembers as a fever dream that he’d only woken up from at the bang of a gun. 

Something bangs here too, in the real world, but it’s just Shuri knocking on her self-designed cryo pod. An icy-blue sleek thing reclining at a thirty-degree angle. It looks more like a bobsled than a freezer. There’ll be no port-hole because the removable top is translucent, see-through soft blue. There’ll be no bars, and he won’t have to work to lift his head to see what’s going on around him. 

Lift his head; squint out through the bars. No energy left, no arm. Trying to rearrange his aching body; can’t. See who fired that gun? Wonder when the lab got so dark, because they’d usually be bathed in light and surrounded by lab assistants day and night. 

At the third bang, he finally noticed that lone soldier, making his way past all the cages. Putting a single bullet in every unmoving experiment. And James remembers thinking to himself: ‘That there, is a stand-up kind of Nazi soldier.’ Because unlike the Hydra research team, that guy at least remembered to put their guinea pigs out of their misery. The nameless thing he was could only muster mild annoyance that he could not remember the man’s name when it was his turn. 

He’d have liked to thank him properly. 

It’s the Russians that rescue James, right after that first memory where he likes to think Bucky ends and James begins. The Russians have already dug two bullets out of his head, because apparently even that Nazi soldier had doubted one would do the job; had wasted a second, extra bullet on him. For all the good it did. His left, rotting arm had finally been removed; amputated completely, not even the shoulder joint salvageable. And that was something that surprised him, because he seemed to remember the Hydra scientists confident he would at some point...grow it back?

When the confused mess that will be James one day asks, sure, so sure that someone  _ else _ was supposed to rescue him.  _ Would _ come to rescue him. That Captain America would come, just for him, the old Russian officer tells him, with heartfelt sympathy: “That’s why you should not put your faith in one man, comrade. Better to trust to the party and their ideas.” 

And James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t know his own name; doesn't know where he came from, or even why or when. But he’d known Captain America. And now, he learns the Captain is  _ dead _ . That he is alone. That the Americans are in little hurry to get him back, the broken, ruined mess he is. But their Russians allies take him in. Nurse him back to health, make him whole again. He makes new friends; lots of comrades; and he loves them. 

Because that old Russian was right; never put your faith in  _ one  _ man: put it in many. Make _ many _ friends. Allies. James knows this is his object in Shuri’s lab; if he cannot woo the Princess of Science herself, then at least get in Wanda’s good graces. Shuri has the most power here, but she is sharp as nails. She doesn’t seem to trust nor like him. But Wanda, too, has input. Friends with Shuri and many others. As long as she doesn’t look into his brain, James should be able to build a rapport with her at last: she and him are both Hydra’s work.

Once again, James tries to follow the conversation. Shuri is firing words at a hundred and twenty rounds a minute, both hands smooth over the cryo pod as she leans over it, a slight crease to her brow and chin lifted towards him. “Now, when flaring up a trigger, I can burn out a point, and let it heal cleanly.”

She gestures to the other woman, characteristically dressed in red. “Wanda is going to study with one of our ancient dreamwalkers first. She will learn to trigger the word subconsciously, without any dangers out in the waking world, but doing that in eight different places before your brain has had a chance to backup the lost trigger somewhere else...”

James recognises the pause, the silent prompt. And a small stage-hand inside him tells him to answer; say something witty. Yet it’s hard. Small talk and banter have failed him completely since fucking Steve Rogers dropped him again, and all he has is blank nothing. Perhaps charm was Bucky’s skill after all. Perhaps Bucky isn’t as dead as he thought. Maybe he’s back, drowning James with his black anger and desperation. James tries to push out of the rut; tries to remember that best of advice: if Steve will not be his friend in time of need, all he needs to do is make new friends. James has done it before. Has so many friends, comrades; loved ones. He can; he will do it again.

And yet, he cannot find it in himself to care. He’s numb and dead and wishing for another few bullets, though he knows they’ll do him little good. Just stares into the middle distance standing straight-backed and still and hoping his thousand-yard stare is close enough to Shuri’s face to draw no attention while her words wash over him without touching. “..you excited as me and my BFF Wanda about cutting into that white boy Frankenstein brain of yours…?” 

James doesn’t even try to put any meaning to her words. Doesn't really care at this point. He figures it was kind of nice Hydra never explained their plans or procedures for him. It saved them all a lot of time and headache. Another blink, and James realises something in Shuri’s words is phrased like a question? Probably needs some kind of answer. Her eyes are too sharp, scanning. She’d be on to him. James swallows twice. Tries to remind himself what he’s here for. She’ll put him to sleep. It’ll feel good. Or, at least, he’ll not have to worry about being numb, while he should be enjoying paradise. 

Shuri stays quiet. He tries to get  _ it _ to smile. The face; the one that’s decidedly Bucky’s today and not James’. “No problem.” Yet he already knows he’s falling short. Everything is hard and heavy and slow. Face like it’s stuck under a mask, like it’s already frozen. It hurts. And that’s not good, and that’s not  _ right. _ Because James’s best feature is that he doesn’t feel anything. Unless he wants to. Unless he  _ likes _ it. But he can’t even get  _ that _ right.

The princess does it again; that studious glance. Breaks eye contact to fidget on some panels on the sleek panels for his cryo chamber. “By the way, your friend Mr Barton is an asshole.”

James is aware that he should grimace at that, at least. It won’t, but perhaps this is covered when Wanda gasps: “Shuri!”

No; it’s not. She  _ knows _ . Shuri is sharp, idealistic and brilliant, like those few females that worked for Hydra were. If James was working right, he’d  _ fear _ her. He feared her before. Yet, he cannot and she can  _ see; _ looks right through him before she turns to the Witch. Some objective part notices that while Shuri might be the younger one, she is far more mature where it matters. The princess shrugs at her friend. “Well, Barton really is. Coulda used one of those knock-out arrows at least.”

“For the clerk?” Wanda, sighs, exasperated; like this is a thing they’ve discussed before. She offers a basic truth. “He was Hydra.”

“So were  _ you _ . So was this guy.” Shuri indicates the rooted statue that should have been James with a tilt of the head, then stalks to the other side of her lab, pulling at some wires and panels sticking from a wall. In answer, the pod glows a brighter blue. It beckons, promising dreamless sleep. The insides are padded. Like a bed, or a sleeping bag. It almost looks like a sleeping bag, raised up somewhere around that thirty degree angle where a bed is not a bed but not a chair or a wall either. That’s thoughtful, isn’t it? Perhaps Shuri doesn’t hate him.

“Why do you two get a second chance, but he gets an arrow in the head?” or, perhaps she does. “Seriously, does Black Lives Matter mean anything to either of you?”

It’s a test, James’s inside stage-hand tells him. And the easiest way to pass a test is to have an ally; a friend in the examination box. And Shuri is offering him a friend: Wanda; Wanda is easy. Young and naive; in ways that have little to do with age. She’s like all the boys and girls back in the USSR, wanting to make a difference. Wanting to be a hero. He’d only need to play the part of wounded puppy, and she would jump at the chance to be his knight; his nurse and protector. 

James can see the play; can see he might even have a chance at taking Shuri in, for she is nothing like those Hydra scientists as much as she is the same. Because here, the color of her skin does indeed matter. Doesn’t she know? Yes, Hydra might have been able to employ such creatures like the fake clerk, but not without killing what made them human. Hawkeye had done the thing a service.

This is supposed to be his joyride. He should be laughing at the wind in his hair; air whipping his face till it cuts tears of joy from his eyes. Rev that engine, scratch that paint job, hit as many dumpsters as humanly possible. 

He can’t do that alone. Can’t dance on the hood by his lonesome self. Can’t make out in the backseat without good company.

But it was supposed to be with Steve. It was supposed to be with his gang that he’d hit the streets and desecrate all that is holy. And it shouldn’t matter; shouldn’t matter. But apparently it does, and James cannot even get a word out as the two women argue.

And then, the cavalry arrives. And James remembers he did at least make  _ one _ other friend. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> such drama, right? oh, boy I'm like 2 parts ahead for this. what should be like 20 chapters. so.. hard to finish this up. let me know if you enjoyed! help me post these. and ofc, my great beta. many thanks, faybenn!


	8. 8 cavalry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I had a bit of trouble figuring out what goes where. and a lot of work lined up.  
> but, at least this is up now. let me know what you all think!

James nearly gets away with it. Nearly. Steve doesn’t even pretend to want to see him, and the other good-byes are mercifully shallow. But in the end Sam corners him. Probably because James isn’t really trying that hard any more. It’s not important, is it? Steve wants to take his whole Avenger business elsewhere, and he’s been clear Bucky is not invited to the party. That officially means James can stop trying to impress the lot of them.

Still it’s a little annoying; because Sam is supposed to be the one respecting border and privacy and other crap, but he walks right in on James while he’s supposed to be changing for the whole freezing thing. But hey, shit like that never bothered the Asset, right? And that was only ever the light version. James is above annoyance. So, he pulls his eyes away from the stupid surgical gown -soft pink and cut too high at the back; no doubt another quip by the Princess he has not quite grasped yet- and aims a questioning glare at Sam.

Sam is suspiciously untouched; crosses his arms with one eyebrow raised. Like James owes him. Accuses, with an up-tilt of the chin. “Do I need to guess?”

A sigh escapes Bucky as he drops the flimsy material, and he tries to get into the right mind-set. Because James shouldn’t be burning these bridges. Sticking to consistency is important in the game. Besides, if he is to stay in Wakanda, he’ll probably be expected to act civil around these people. James recognizes the truth of this argument, yet Bucky pretends not to have the energy. 

After a few seconds of silence, Sam draws his own conclusion. He nods, as if; steps forward, voice hard like he’s wringing a confession. “You kissed him, didn’t you?”

And James cannot stop the snorting laugh. Kissed Steve? Kissing was an understatement. Bucky had closed his eyes; gone in all the way. Had not let the resistance of lips nor the clang of their teeth coming together slow him down. Not one bit. He’d thrust his tongue right on past that surprised hiss of air until it lodged down that big dumb throat. Right in. He had shown Steve; James had shown him that he loved him, in the most honest way he knew.

And Steve had ran.

Well, fine. James had made an educated bet; he’d thought it was a good gamble. But sometimes you play your hand and go home rich. And sometimes.. sometimes you play the same hand and you’re left broke. No matter. Contingency plans were in place. His needs would be met. With or without Steve. Shuri would see his worth, and he’d damn well keep her interest.

“You can’t just..” Sam sighs, like James cares. Like he should. “Look, you spooked Steve pretty bad, okay?” 

Well, wasn’t that just  _ cute _ . Captain America in full rout, and all it took was one little kiss. It was nice to know the Winter Soldier hadn’t lost his touch when it came to intimidation. Even if he’d apparently got his signals crossed. Both ways, because the glare he aimed at Sam certainly wasn’t working. Didn’t even shut the usually stoic man up. “James, you gotto remember, that man is from a world where kissing another guy is  _ bad; _ straight up sinning bad, okay?”

James bristles, steps closer; Sam is hardly a small man, but Bucky has some height on him, not to mention mass and reputation. “Allright,” another half a step has him looming over the slighter man. “what? You’re here for the comical retelling?”

“Of course not!” Shock, though no fear. It annoys James; perhaps he needs to rip off another pair of wings from the Falcon. Make it a monthly occurrence, to keep a hint of respect? No; who is he kidding? A hint of unease would be good enough.

Into the sudden quiet, Sam sighs, deeper than before. “Come here,” arms wide, expression wry.

And then Sam manages a feat James hadn’t thought anyone—except perhaps bigger-than-life, serum-enhanced Rogers— could pull off: he envelops Bucky. Like a blanket, all around. James must have shrunk somewhere-perhaps his knees gave. Because while he was above him before s dark stubbled chin comes to rest somewhere near James’s temple. Sam’s chest houses al Bucky’s weaker areas: throat, belly, face. Arms wrap around James’s back, warm and strong and Bucky is pulled, face right into a strong and steady neck. Even his suddenly, inconcievingly weak, deadly hand is protected in an all-guarding hug. And alright; Bucky needs to stay stooped, needs to make himself fit. But he can and he does, and it’s like second nature and it’s..

Its.. different, but in a good way. Something new, good. But.. not new; something forgotten. James knows he’s been cut off from the world of touch for a while; that thick layer of leather and kevlar had bound every part of him every moment he interacted with the real world. Covered completely and totally, except that left arm; an arm dead to touch. This was both his prison and his armor, keeping him so far separated from reality that most missions he could pretend he was just watching a particular noir piece of film. The few times that shell was penetrated were bad, bad experiences. Painful invasions of bullets or fists or..

An invasion, like the way he’d kissed Steve. Perhaps.. Perhaps he had forgotten. How much more there was to love. Here, what Sam was doing. Not invading, not conquering, but just inviting him into his space; without invading. Without forcing any mixing of juices; just skin-on-skin. 

Perhaps he had put too much stock in the meaning of a kiss. Because he’s sure it’s a big thing; the kind of intimate thing that one only shares with someone of importance. But, it’s hardly the first step, is it? it should just have been one step in the whole process. And not the first step; no, there should have been small crosses over to the other’s personal space. To and fro, of requests and acquiescence. Little touches, deeper ones; and yes, real hugs like this. Like this one. 

“I fucked it up.” The revelation leaves him on a breath. Nearly a gasp. Of course he’d spooked Steve. Of course he had. Steve may be big, and strong, and like him. But he was just small and weak before. Hell, perhaps inside, he still is. Small, weak and scared. Like a little red- riding hood. And then James had to go full bad wolf mode and slobber all over him.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it.” Sam’s voice rumbles. His smell, mixed with cologne. And warm. It’s somehow all okay. “It’s kind ore refreshing, really. To see Captain Amerika avoid confrontation for once.”

With a noncommittal grunt James decides, Sam really is a nice guy. And he should probably return the gesture. His one arm loops around the dark-skinned man carefully. James grins into the skin of the other’s neck- careful is the trick. Read the other’s body language. Check if you’ve gone too far. He’s totally got this. Sam’s not pulling away, not even stiffening. James will not be making the same mistake twice.

Sam clears his throat, pulling James from his strategies. “So Steve’s doing an even better job than you evading, so I can’t really say how he feels right now.” A last pat to his back before Sam straightens to look into James’s eyes, one hand on the real shoulder. “But a friendship like two shouldn’t fall apart over a little thing like falling in love. Sure, it’ll be awkward for a while, but you’ll see.. ”

Falling in love is a strange way to phrase it, but James smiles weakly anyway. It’s a text-book smile. Learned and fake, and there’s a little voice that’s probably Bucky saying  _ ‘Tough. _ ’ Stevie wants him back then Shuri and him can duke it out if it comes to that. James doesn't quite  _ get _ Shuri yet, but with what Sam just showed him he knows he can crack her. Steve doesn’t have a clue about how to fight someone like Shuri.

“You okay now?”

James snorts. What is there to worry about? Wanda messing up his brain? Nothing much to break in there. Wakanda selling him off to the highest bidder? Not likely as long as he has Shuri’s interest. Besides, James had made a conscious decision a long time ago not to worry about what he could not fix. Not to let paranoia or fear close. So, he didn’t worry about any of those things.. 

As for the more likely, violent option. “Hey Sam? Can you imagine? If Hydra does get me back and defrosts me..?” James had another good laugh at that short surgical gown. Soft pink. Open at the back. “I’ll be wearing this too-short dress with my ass hanging out.”

Sam snorts. “That is kind of a dreadful worst-case scenario.” But, the quiet man assures him in that sure way of his: “you’ll see. When you wake up, everything will be better.”

James loves that Sam is again so, so very right.


	9. Czechoslovakia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bit of backstory.

And then, one day, before the Russian Hydra branch hands him over to America for a sum much too high and with a manual detailing far too little, the Winter Soldier lines up a killing shot. The target is out below in a small village grasping hands as he moves through the crowd. The wind blows, and patches of snow swirl around in deceivingly chaotic patterns. It makes no difference to the Soldier. The bullet flies and he closes his eyes, mechanically starts to take his sniper rifle apart. Mind relaxing, slowing down. Job completed, he’d finally free think; wonder:  _ what next?  _ Return to extraction point, four day hike.  _ Where am I even?  _ -Czechoslovakia. And  _ why?  _ -Assasination. It was always an assasination. 

Far-away screams of distress reach his ears with a turn of the wind; confirmation he doesn't need. The Winter Soldier never checked if his shots hit home. Knew for a fact it would. His support team lacks faith in him though: the agent next to him, smirking from behind his binoculars. Three more, supposedly protecting the perimeter, but he has to wonder why feel compelled to divide their attention between their surroundings and him; the proverbial Comrade. Like the Soldier has ever been a danger to his allies. The Soldier nearly snorts with derision; he cannot remember ever letting down his team. 

“Target down,” and that is when that man with the binoculars makes a fatal mistake: a fatal flaw that breaks the spell. “Another threat to Hydra meets a far too easy end. Mission success. Let’s pack up and head back, boys. It’s a long road as is.”

Someone on his side shifts, uncomfortable; apparently aware that this is something that should not have been said. Should not have been uttered out loud within hearing of the Soldier. And suddenly there’s a crack in his mind: a tear line that must have been broken mended a thousand times. From somewhere below comes a nameless thing up for air; for freedom. 

And the Winter Soldier stared, eyes wide, mind running little circles. Like a tornado. Tight, little panicking circles, until the fool with binoculars noticed, handguns cocking somewhere close behind. “ _ what?  _ ” 

And though he had no name for it; for the storm in his mind, it’s Bucky. And when the Soldier deadpanned “Hail Hydra,”

...the whole four-man team had returned that with their own zealous “Hail Hydra,” with a sigh; relaxing. 

And Bucky’s face had stretched thinly, in a failed smile, and he had finished packing up his weapon. And he felt more like a person than he had in forty years. Somewhere, something in the back of his mind something or someone kept running circles, but Bucky is the eye of the storm:  _ hail Hydra. Hail Hydra. hailHydrahailfuckingfuckingHydra..  _ But not Bucky. Revived and summoned by those very words, he was completely calm. And so the scheming commenced.

Oh; they had him on a tight leash. He couldn’t attack his teammates; just thinking about that made him sick. Couldn’t injure himself. Couldn’t disobey their orders. And that should have stuck out at him, before: And, how his comrades, his team, his friends kept a wary distance from him. It all made sense now, didn’t it? Why the men kept their an eye more on him than on enemy territory; why his comrades only stared at him disapprovingly when he’d offered them a hand up a steep slope on the way here. Well, there’d be none of that on the way back. These men were not his friends; these men were not his comrades. 

How Bucky had failed to notice any of this until now was unfathomable. Apparently the Winter Soldier had not been thinking; had apparently not thought much at all for a while. And that was the only reason this Hydra scum had managed to stay alive. While already making _so many mistakes; mistakes_ in Europe’s winter wilderness. Something he knew always led to a cold, early grave —for anyone but him, of course. His mind was like a smashed piece of pottery: it did not fit together well. But the shards told him he’d frozen in a blizzard before; whole platoons dying at his side. Whie he marched on come spring, untouched. 

Here, in the wilderness of Czechoslovakia an icey death marched only one step behind any careless interloper. As today it marched on the side of the Winter Soldier; hanging back ever so slightly, and relishing the possibilities.

Had he been anyone else at that moment; any of James’s previous incarnations, he might have swallowed down the fact he was with Hydra once again. Would have looked for friends, to protect his own interests in the long run. Enarmour himself with them for later exploitation. Or, perhaps he would have manipulated the team-leader to override the return order with friendly advice and a few well-placed sabotages; such a chance for escape hardly ever presented itself, after all. 

Either would have been a smart, decent choice. Instead, he was Bucky: the angry, streetwise kid that somehow got the self-destructive notion in his head that fighting back was worth it; the right thing to do, even when there was no chance of winning. Even if he’d only hurt himself in the process. Perhaps one time, Bucky too, had had a brain. But whatever had been left, right before he died, would have happily taken any whipping just to make some Hydra scum bleed, even if it was just a little.

James of the future knows better; James enjoys the finer things in life. Even when those things were far and few between. Count your blessings; find beauty even in the most grotesk of moments. James loves, and makes himself loved. Made friends  _ everywhere. _ But Bucky must have been infected by Steve Roger’s self-destructive ideals, though at this point they are sour and rotting. 

Rotted away into something violent and evil; like his arm had rotten. Yes; it must have been something they’d given, after the fall, when Hydra pumped him full with anything and everything to try and improve on his Serum; try and save his mangled, broken arm.. 

Or perhaps he had spoiled before he’d fallen off that train. It’s all the hate that killed Bucky, James figures. Because the body, despite all adversity, had shown it was beyond quitting.

So, James-in-the-now knows not to let Bucky’s ghost in control. Knows how to fight him; wrestle him down before he and his short-sighted plans take hold: Bucky’s plans for vengeance were rewarding, yes. But always backfired in some way. Vengeance always begets vengeance, and payback is a bitch. There’s always some incarnation of James that has to pay the price for Bucky’s transgressions, and Bucky only seems to revel in the pain. Some form of gleeful self-hate or perhaps machochism. Whatever the reason, James now knows better. 

But that time in Czechoslovakia, his memory was scrambled too badly, too new. James not yet in existence, and all he knew was he was Bucky, and he was going to  _ get his _ . 

The air was brisk; not quite spring. Starting on a terrain of uneven hills through a forest, but information in his head informed him cover would be waning. A track of four days through the cold. Starting out from this small town by a deforested hill, moving into sad shrubbery, until they traversed some near-untouched wilderning. Finally ending in the landlocked tundras where they were scheduled to be picked up.

Fresh; near-cold. But in the full sun and at a brisk walk his so-called team-mates had opened their tactical vests, the heavy packs obviously bothering them. It was easy to take advantage of their lazy, indulgent nature. The Winter Soldier presented himself subtly; letting the idea come to the worst fool in the lot: the guy from the binoculars. Within half an hour Hydra’s main idiot pushed his pack on him. 

The rest followed soon; realizing the Soldier could not deny them. Until he was loaded like a mule; one on his back, one against his stomach, one from each shoulder. The Soldier didn’t carry a pack: didn’t need a tent or sleeping bag of pots for cooking. But he had enough to carry: the standard kit of weapons, emergency nutrition, some minor pieces for first aid and communication. It wasn’t a stretch if he’d fall back again, just a little. The sweat he worked up was, for once, completely valid. 

But Bucky would not have complained if he could, in fact, a rare, secretive grin opened on his face while he slowly trailed behind, playing the ever obedient puppet. Bucky thirsted for blood. That perpetual circle of  _ HydraHydraHailfuckingHydra  _ had already morphed it into something beautiful and sweet: tangible revenge. 

On the first day, the Winter Soldier ‘slipped’ in a shallow steam they crossed, taking care to get all the packs and sleeping bags soaking wet. The men hadn’t even realised, too engrossed in their own path up the river beds on the other side. Only by evening when they took back their backpacks, and water streamed out the moment they tilted them, did they realise. 

The commander of this group of misfits demanded a report, and got little more out of the Soldier than that he’d fallen and got wet. The sleeping bags soaked, the four man team decided to brave the night’s sub-zero temperatures huddled together in one tent. And Bucky delighted in staring at that tent all night in parade rest, encouraging the howling winds, and wishing for snow. 

In a strike of luck, the one satellite phone on them had been in the wettest pack of all, and out of order. There was no way to contact headquarters, so if they missed extraction that was it. The team leader finally decided that there was no point in lugging around soaked tents and sleeping bags. The morning was cold and misty, the sun stuck behind a thick blanket of clouds even when it finally crested the horizon. After a stock on the state of the men, it quickly became clear that none had fared well enough through the night to carry their own gear today. Feet and hands were completely numb, and at least two men were suffering hypothermia. 

So again everything was loaded unto the Winter Soldier’s broad shoulders, this time fitting everything into one bag with the least soaked tent at the top. One sleeping bag they tied over it, hanging it loose in hopes that it would dry. Then the leader ordered the Winter Soldier to keep the gear from water at all costs.

That morning, the Winter Soldier took a tumble off a rocky, thorny slope, tore the sleeping bag and tent and backpack rolling down, and scattered their food and supplies down a ravine.

The commander actually beat him, probably bruising his fists badly, barked at the men to pocket what they could find, and finally ordered them on after a mostly fruitless endeavor. The tent and their sleeping bag were ruined, caught on thorn bushes far down the slope, and so they too were left behind. 

And the Winter Soldier knew them for fools, because even a broken shelter would have been better than none.

Despite the dangers of drawing attention and the now painful shortage of supplies, that night, they made a fire. The men heated what little tins they had recovered, and then ate the Soldier’s supply of protein packs as well. And of course they cursed him and told the Soldier they hoped  _ he _ starved, and he'd have a lot more to worry about, once they got him back to base. But all Bucky could do was hold in that nasty grin that threatened to take control of his face.

Somewhere along the third day, it started to snow. Bucky could hardly believe his luck, as he walked in front of the flagging team of _ fucking Hydra agents  _ . By the time the commander ordered him to find a campsite, they had lost two of the men completely. The two left were hardly likely to make it till morning, and the Winter Soldier calculated that they had traveled at such a slow rate today that they were unlikely to make the extraction point by tomorrow.

The commander must have realised the same thing, because he pulled out his gun, and shot his last companion. The binocular guy, Bucky realised with relish. Then the commander told the Soldier: “I  _ order  _ you to get me to the extraction point. I  _ order  _ you to keep me alive.”

And Bucky’s mouth opened to a cheshire grin, like a zipper opened on razor blades beneath. He discarded the nearly empty bag and turned around to let the man climb on his back; carrying the shivering and pathetic mess at an even trot through the snow all night.

The Winter Soldier did get the man to the right coordinates within time; because that were the orders. But Bucky got what he wanted: apart from three men’s lives, the commander lost most of his fingers to the cold, several toes on his right foot. His left leg had to be amputated halfway from the femur down, where Bucky had carried him with a metal, frozen arm. An arm that despite the Soldier’s experience with cryostasis had never given him an inch of frostbite. 

Interestingly enough, James does not remember any punishment. All they did was wipe him, and put him back in storage for years. Longer than any time before, actually. And when he woke the next time, he was on American soil. Bucky would probably like to think that that mission was the moment Russia’s Hydra decided that the risks and cost of the Winter Soldier simply didn’t outway the gains. 

But James also knows, without question, that Hydra will never tire of their favorite Soldier. And if he’s to stay out of the black hole that is their control for any decent amount of time, any kind of time for him to actually cherish, he needs friends and allies in power. If Captain America will not be that shield. Well, it’s not a problem. Governments and organizations and people can be his shield; have been his shield before. And James has got the whole of Wakanda to hide behind now.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--
> 
> He guys! What’s up! Hope you guys are enjoying my story.
> 
> Because of the -holy cow I have a plot- thing (that is big and epic for reasons I do not understand) I’m going to cut this up in 5 or 6 parts, and this will be the first part. Also, this is going to read as an Alternate timeline now. (though I'll keep pretty close to Canon as a situation/ characters etc) Because everything's been pulled out of whack and I think you’ll all love it. I hope you will. Well; let me know. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temp chapter

Temporary chapter to let all those nice people following this know i posted the start of the next part (and some interludes too)

**Author's Note:**

> so, ya. I hope you liked and dont forget to drop me a not and make my day!
> 
> you can tell me if you hated it too you know.


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